The Boy Who Lived
by hodorhodorhodor
Summary: After March 13th, 1988, Harry Potter was no longer just the wizarding world's 'Boy-Who-Lived.' As the sole survivor of Flight 1326, he became the 'Boy-Who-Lived' to muggles as well. Despite Dumbledore's protests, Harry is now being raised in the home of Britain's Muggle Prime Minister, Gordon Rollins. Rollins is determined to unleash a prepared Harry onto the wizarding world. AU.
1. Chapter 1

"The Boy Who Lived"

By: hodorhodorhodor

* * *

As the Boeing 777 passed over the Atlantic Ocean, Captain Terrence Green knew something was terribly wrong. The throttle had suddenly stopped working causing the aircraft's engine warning lights to blink repeatedly at him and a sharp whistle to go off in his left ear. After thirty four years of being a pilot, he knew this could only mean one thing; the one thing that was the worst nightmare for anyone who ever operated an aircraft- dual engine failure.

"Peters start the APU. We need to make an emergency landing," Captain Green told his co-pilot, who's eyes widened. An APU was the auxiliary power unit on an airplane. It was a critical safety device that was designed to supply backup electricity to an engine if it suddenly became dead. If Peters's captain was calling for its activation, the aircraft and the two hundred and seven souls on board were in serious trouble.

Captain Green grabbed his radio and called out to the airport closest to their current location, "Paris Tower, BA Code 01326!"

The French air traffic controller was quick to reply, "BA Code 01326, this is Paris Tower, go ahead!"

Captain Green looked over at his co-pilot who was shaking his head as he frantically switched the APU on and off repeatedly. The green light that signaled the APU was working was not coming on. The backup power device had failed too. From the lurch the airplane suddenly made, Captain Green knew the Boeing 777 was quickly losing altitude.

"May Day! May Day! May Day! BA Code 01326 Five November Romeo Alpha Mike dual engine failure!" Captain Green shouted into his radio, trying the throttle again. No response.

After delivering the message, the pilot grabbed the intercom system. Through the cabin door, he could hear the cries of the frightened passengers as the plane descended lower and lower towards the ocean.

"This is your captain speaking," Green said over the radio, trying to remain as calm as possible in order to prevent complete chaos from descending upon the plane. "We have experienced operational difficulties that will require you to remain seated and buckled in. Please brace yourself for a water landing."

More screams could be heard as a result of this news, but the captain had to ignore them. The Paris Tower air traffic control officer was talking to him again.

"BA Code 01326, I repeat: do you read me?"

Captain Green picked up his radio again, "I read you five by five! Dual engine failure! Negative response from throttle! A water landing will be attempted! I repeat: a water landing will be attempted!"

Green looked over at his co-pilot, who was attempting to level out the plane. The younger man was the picture of desperation. Peters's grip on the yoke was so tight that Green could see the blood vessels popping out on his hands and sweat was gleaming off the other man's face while he muttered over and over again, "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck."

Unfortunately, it seemed Peters's efforts were going to be in vain. In front of them, the ocean was coming closer and closer at an alarming speed. If they did not slow the plane down now, everyone on board would die.

"Pull back! Pull back!" Green yelled at his co-pilot, but it was no use. They were going to crash.

In the last moments before impact, the captain managed to grab the intercom device one last time to shout to his passengers, "Brace yourselves!" before the entire world around them seemed to smack into a blue brick wall.

* * *

Eight year old Harry Potter was having a wonderful day.

The Dursleys had been planning a trip to Italy for over a year now. Aunt Petunia was thrilled to spend time on the warm beaches and work on her tan- "I need to look better than that horrid woman in Number 11 before summer starts!"-, Uncle Vernon wanted to eat as much Italian food as his whale-like body could consume- "Those Grease Balls might have spanked by us in the War, but they can still cook damn good food!"- and Dudley… well, he was just excited for all the souvenirs he was promised by his parents.

Harry was supposed to remain in Little Whinging just like on every Dursley family holiday. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon told him that this was because holidays were meant to be enjoyed and his 'freakishness' would certainly ruin that possibility. This was why they had arranged for Harry's neighbor- the crazy cat lady, Mrs. Figg- to watch him for the week that they would be away.

A week without the Dursleys was like Christmas come early in Harry's opinion. It would be a week without weeding the garden or dusting the furniture or scrubbing the floors or any of the other terrible chores Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon could invent for him. He would be allowed to relax and read all the books he had checked out of his school's library before their March break. Harry was excited to delve into classics such as "Charlotte's Webb" and "Chronicles of Narnia." The eight year old was convinced it was going to be his best break yet.

But then, disaster struck for the Dursleys when Mrs. Figg's uncle had passed away two days before the trip. The deceased man had no next of kin and it was up to his niece to arrange the wake and the funeral services. She would need to leave town and was unable to take Harry with her.

Now, panicking at the possibility of their holiday being derailed, Uncle Vernon had phoned his sister, Marge, in hope that she could take the boy. Unfortunately Marge, a bulldog breeder, was attending a conference about canine nutrition on the continent.

"We can't just leave him here, Vernon. He's eight!" Aunt Petunia had argued with her husband, when he had suggested locking Harry in the cupboard for the week while they were in Italy. "What would the neighbors think?"

In the end, the Dursleys were forced to purchase a plane ticket to Italy for Harry. Despite it being in economy class- the Dursleys were in business seeing as they were above such mediocrity-, it was still _very_ expensive, since it was bought last minute. The Dursleys were furious, but there was nothing they could do about it. Harry Potter was going to Italy whether they liked it or not.

On the morning of March 13th, 1988, Harry Potter had boarded flight 1326 in a fantastic mood. Even though he was stuck with his awful relatives for the week, he would still be going to another country. For a boy who had never left Little Whinging, this was a huge deal. He would be able to see all the sights that he had only been able to glimpse at in books- Rome, the Alps, the Mediterranean and the list went on and on. Harry knew this trip would be the highlight of his young life.

He took a seat between a man the size of Uncle Vernon and an old woman with wispy white hair who was clutching a pair of rosary beads. The man had glared at Harry when he accidentally stepped on his foot while squeezing by, but the woman had smiled at him.

"You're awfully young to be flying by yourself," she commented when he sat down next to her.

"My relatives are on the plane too," Harry assured her and pointed towards the Business Class section that had been separated by a curtain.

The old woman raised her eyebrows at his response, "Why are you stuck back here, while they're up there?" she asked him, her hazel eyes narrowing with suspicion.

"I got my ticket at the last minute," Harry muttered, not wanting to draw any more attention to the Dursleys. If Uncle Vernon found out someone was poking in his family's business because of Harry… well, he knew the most _minor_ punishment would be getting locked in the cupboard under the stairs for a week. Harry did not want to think of what else his uncle would do to him if such a thing occurred.

Before the old woman could ask Harry more questions, a blonde haired lady in a navy blue blazer and pencil skirt walked down the aisle and told the passengers to start buckling up. The eight year old felt his heart begin to race. He could not believe he was actually going to fly!

While the lady in blue gave instructions about the life preservers, Harry wondered if flying on an airplane was anything like the dreams he sometimes had of the flying motorbike. Harry loved those dreams more than any other recurring dreams he had. There was wind in his hair, a bubbling sensation in his stomach and a rush of excitement the boy had never experienced outside his sleep before. The eight year old hoped the Boeing 777 would produce a similar reaction.

Suddenly, there was a rumble underneath his feet and Harry felt his entire body begin to vibrate. Above him, a sign blinked on and showed a hand putting a seat belt into the buckle and Harry mimicked the action.

'Here we go!' Harry thought as the plane pulled out of the gate and started creeping down the runway.

"Is this your first time flying, young man?" the old woman asked, taking a break from saying the rosary to look over at Harry.

The small boy nodded, "Yes, ma'm."

She smiled down at him, "My, my, you're awfully calm for your first flight," the old woman told Harry. "I remember when I took my Monica on a plane for the first time. The poor girl almost wet herself in fear!"

Harry was not sure if the old woman was making a joke about her daughter or not, so instead of laughing, he smiled back politely, "Don't worry ma'm; I used the loo before I got on the plane."

The old woman let out loud, barking laughs that attracted the glares of some of the other passengers, who were tense on account of their imminent takeoff. She ignored them and beamed down at Harry.

"I like you, young man," she said, still smiling. "What's your name?"

"Harry, Harry Potter," the small boy informed her and held out his hand, feeling warmth grow inside of him.

Harry was not used to hearing from many people that he was liked and especially not by adults. At home, he was constantly called a freak and a brat. At school- where he had to play dumb to lessen the wrath of the Dursleys for beating Dudley on exams-, he was dubbed as lazy and a troublemaker by his teachers. This was a welcome change.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Harry Potter," the old woman said and shook his hand firmly. "I'm Elaine Kirk."

Before Harry could return the sentiment, a deafening sound filled the cabin of the airplane, making his teeth chatter. He looked out the window to see what was happening. Was there an earthquake?

"The engines are being turned up," the old woman explained loudly over the noise, while still fingering her rosary beads. "The plane needs a lot of power to get off the ground."

Suddenly, the aircraft began to move at a speed Harry did not think he had ever traveled in his entire life. His stomach was clenched tightly and his mouth began to dry up, but he could not stop grinning. This was fantastic! It was almost better than his dream!

After a few seconds of speeding down the runway, Harry felt a sudden upwards lurch and his back immediately pressed against the seat. They were climbing into the sky, gaining feet by the second. Harry leaned over Elaine Kirk, who had her eyes clamped shut and was muttering the rosary, to gaze down at London through the airplane's window. The huge city was getting smaller and smaller as they went up. It was wonderful!

When the plane broke through the thick, grey London clouds, the sight below him had made Harry's breath catch in his throat. The young boy had never seen anything more awe-inspiring than the top of the clouds. It did not seem natural to Harry. It was as if he had just landed on a different planet that had a grey and fluffy surface. The sight was absolutely beautiful and Harry wished he had a camera to capture the image forever. It would certainly be a lovely picture to look at while he was stuck in his cupboard. It would remind him of a happier time, a freer time.

After a few more minutes, the flight attendant informed Harry and the other passengers over the intercom that they were now over the Atlantic Ocean and gaining altitude. They would be allowed to remove their seat-belts and use the bathroom if they so desired. Once the announcement was over, Elaine Kirk opened her eyes again and rested her rosary beads on her lap. She looked visibly relaxed and smiled at Harry.

"Nice sight, isn't it?" Elaine asked, glancing out the window.

"It's beautiful," he agreed.

"Still makes me want to say the rosary, though," the older woman told him, regaining some of her previous wariness. "It's not natural for humans to be amongst the clouds... If flying wasn't so damn convenient, I would say leave it to the birds!"

"Why do you need those?" Harry asked, pointing at the beads.

The Dursleys had only taken him to church and youth group a few times when he was younger. After Dudley kept throwing a fit- "I want my telly! I'm bored! I'm bored!"-, they had stopped. This was why Harry was not very knowledgeable when it came to religion. Of course, he had still managed to pick up a few things from church, including how to use rosary beads. But from what he noticed about the beads was that people usually took them out during mass or during confession. Harry was not sure why they were with Elaine on the plane now.

"I don't trust airplanes, Harry," she told him. "I don't get how they get off the ground. I don't get how they stay in the sky. I don't get anything about them… The only thing I trust in is God. God will protect me no matter what happens to me… That's why I use the rosary beads- to keep in touch with God even at my darkest hour."

Harry did not know how to respond to that. The boy never really believed in anything. After all, if there was a loving and all-powerful God as they said at Church, why would he let his parents die in that car crash? Why would God allow him to live with people as terrible as the Dursleys? It did not make sense to Harry. The only thing the boy did believe in was that one day he would be free from Number Four, Privet Drive. It was what drove him even when he was locked away in the cupboard for days at the time, starving and miserable.

Suddenly, the plane gave a quick, downward lurch and several people cried out, either being tossed forward or into the aisle. Elaine grabbed Harry's hand very tightly and started saying prayers under her lips again.

"Ladies and gentleman, it seems that we are experiencing a bit of turbulen-"

But before the flight attendant could finish, the plane lurched downwards again, inciting more screams. The seat-belt sign was on again and people scrambled to secure themselves. Harry could hear babies crying and more prayers being muttered. However, what he no longer heard was the rumbling sound of the plane's engine.

'That's impossible,' Harry thought but when he looked out the window at the engine on the left wing of the plane, it was no longer vibrating. His stomach clenched immediately and every hair on his body was on edge. What was happening?

"This is your captain speaking," a deep, male voice suddenly echoed through the cabin's walls, cutting through the infants' wails. "We have experienced operational difficulties that will require you to remain seated and buckled in. Please brace yourself for a water landing."

The words provoked an instant panic. People around Harry started crying. Mother's were hugging their children in an attempt to soothe them. A couple across the aisle gripped each other's hands like a lifeline. Harry wondered what his relatives were doing in business class. Aunt Petunia was probably throwing a fit over Dudley. Did she even think about her nephew who was all by himself towards the back of the plane?

"This is it," Elaine whispered next to him, tears now running down her face, and started spewing what was all nonsense to Harry, "I should've said goodbye… I'm such a fool… But, I am going to be closer to you, God, and you, Mark... Yes, we'll be reunited again very soon."

Harry squeezed the old woman's hand, hoping this would comfort her, but she just cried more.

"And you poor, poor boy," Elaine muttered, cupping the side of his face. "You're too young… too, too young. Where are your relatives? Why haven't they come to say goodbye?"

Even at the brink of imminent death, Harry still could not admit how terrible the Dursleys were to another person. Saying goodbye to Harry was probably the last thing on his 'family's' mind. They _hated_ their nephew. They were probably blaming the plane crashing on his freakishness at this very moment.

"I'll be okay," Harry told the old woman, ignoring the lurch in his stomach. They were falling at a sharper angle now. Death was moments away.

"Yes, you will be," Elaine agreed, caressing his face once more before praying out loud, "Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee," The ocean was getting closer now, "Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus," They were about 500 feet away, "Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death," Harry closed his eyes as he distantly heard someone yell to brace themselves, "Amen."

Black.

* * *

So, this is a project that I've been working on for about a month and a half now. I have a few chapters already written and I was planning to post them earlier, but then there was that terrible week of plane crashes and I did not think it was appropriate.

Please let me know what you think. I am more than welcome to suggestions. I have a general outline at the moment, but I'm still playing around with it. I appreciate any feedback I can get. Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

"The Boy Who Lived"

By: hodorhodorhodor

* * *

_Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, Amen._

Harry James Potter jolted awake in the darkness. His ears were ringing from the screams of the other passengers, the cries of the babies and Elaine's voice, fear laden but steady, as she chanted the 'Hail Mary' at the final moments before the eight year old was consumed by darkness and pain.

The small boy had not opened his eyes yet. His eyelids were _so_ heavy and he could feel from the lack of weight on the bridge of his nose that his glasses were long gone. Even if Harry wanted to fully take in his surroundings, it would be a futile effort. Without his glasses, the eight year old was practically blind. For him, everything blurred after five feet. It had been a source of misery for the boy at primary school- always picked last on the football field despite his speed, always enduring taunts by the school bullies, always searching for masking tape to hold his tool for sight together. Harry normally hated his dependency on the wretched eyeglasses but at this moment, when he could hear the wind roaring past his ears, could feel almost nothing but ice from his waist down and with every breath could smell salt, gasoline and rotting (possibly) meat all at the same time, he knew he was fortunate not to be able to see anything around him.

So, instead of focusing on what was going on around him, Harry drew his attention to what seemed like the next largest pressing issue, which was the numbness in his lower extremities. It was almost as if his legs were no longer a part of him, cut off from the rest of his body. The boy tried to kick out, to prove that his legs were still attached, and was rewarded by pain, blinding pain that seemed to radiate from every inch of his body. A scream ripped out of his dry throat and rang in his ears before being carried away by the wind. Harry wanted to clutch his left leg where the pain seemed to center, but his arms would not cooperate. They did not want to lift off the cold, smooth surface they seemed to be draped across.

This brought on a new wave of panic and the eight year old had to bite down on his lip in an attempt try to prevent himself from crying out again. Fear and pain were currently consuming him, but Harry knew he would be in a lot of trouble if his brain shut down as a result of anxiety on top of it. The eight year old needed to anchor himself. He needed to be rational in what seemed like irrational chaos that surrounded him. After a moment of contemplation, the small boy decided if he wanted to at least to alleviate some of his fear, he needed to open his eyes. Being ignorant of his surroundings was only worrying the young boy more. By at least being able to see- even if it was only five feet around him- it would help Harry formulate a plan on what to do next.

It took a lot out of for the boy to open his green eyes. His eyelids were so heavy… and there seemed to be dirt or sand encrusted over them. Harry nuzzled his jumper weakly to get some of the gunk off his eyelids, since his hands were currently not complying. The boy was shocked even the slightest of movements had robbed him of strength. A traitorous part of him began to whisper how easy it would be to give up, to jump into the gentle arms of death… But his brain, still clinging to rationality and survival, was screaming at Harry. It wanted him to fight. It wanted him to open his eyes.

Pure willpower made his crusted eyelids moved upwards and at the sight before him, the eight year old let out a gasp.

Despite his limited sight, Harry could tell he was floating in the middle of a _very_ large body of water. Half of his body was draped over a piece of white metal, while his legs were completely submerged. Through his blurred vision, Harry could see brown and black boxes (luggage?), white hunks of metal and what looked like a few bodies- twisted in ways that no human being should ever be- floating face down in the water.

Nausea seized the small boy's stomach. To his knowledge, he had never seen another dead human being in his entire life. Perhaps, he might have gotten a glimpse of his dead parents when he was an infant, but seven years had washed away any memory of their corpses. Now, death was assaulting him from all sides- dead women, dead men, dead children…

Crying would have been a natural reaction to the dead around the small boy but ever since Harry was sent to live with the Dursleys, his brain was constantly centered on survival. Years of wasted tears over punishments and hunger had hardened the small boy to the point that he knew weeping now would do nothing for him. It would only waste the little strength he had left. He needed to do something beneficial instead, like get his legs out of the water. The eight year old did not know much about anatomy and physiology, but he was certain keeping any body part in ice cold water for an extended period of time would be disastrous in the long run.

With this thought in mind, Harry tried his hardest to pull his legs up onto the piece of metal, to get them out of the frigid water, but it seemed a jagged piece had embedded itself in his thigh, pinning him to the debris. The eight year old groaned as he felt the metal cut deeper into his skin. It hurt terribly…

"Ow, ow, ow," Harry muttered repeatedly as tears now stung the corners of his eyeballs. He had never felt this kind of agony in his life, not even when Dudley and his gang broke his arm by pushing him off the slide or not even when Uncle Vernon had given him the belt for forgetting to cook the bacon. It was almost unbearable.

'Focus on something else,' Harry thought, his eyes now clenched closed in pain, 'It will pass… just focus on something else, anything else.'

With his leg still throbbing, the small boy opened his eyes and looked around for something to distract him. A few feet away, Harry spotted a person with grey curly hair face down in the ocean and his mind immediately drifted to his companion on the airplane. What had happened to Elaine… or even the Dursleys? Had they survived the plane crash like he did? Were they around somewhere floating on a piece of debris? Or were they face down in the ocean like the other unlucky souls around him? Well, there was only one way to find out…

"Hello!" he called out, hoping someone would respond.

When Harry was met with silence, he felt his heart begin to sink. He could not be the only person to survive the plane crash, right? The young boy was not _that_ lucky. After all, he had to live with the Dursleys for the last seven years, which seemed like the worst fate ever imaginable. Perhaps, the other survivors were still out cold, like he had been until a few moments ago. They would probably wake up soon.

So, with this hope in mind, Harry called out again after a few minutes to see if anyone had woken up. He waited… and waited… but once more, there was no response. The only sound the eight year old heard was the wind whistling passed his ears, while the rest of the crash site was blanketed by an eerie stillness. Harry, not one to give up easily, let some more time pass and then called out again. He was met with more silence.

Now, frustrated, Harry screamed on the top of his lungs, "IS ANYBODY OUT THERE? PLEASE, I'M ALIVE!"

The continued silence that followed his screaming was like a punch in the gut that seemed to knock the air right out of the small boy. The hope that possessed him to find another survivor was quickly fading and fear was taking over.

The dark part of his mind, the part that grounded itself in pessimism, the part that he tried to keep locked away while he lived with the Dursleys to keep himself from unraveling, was swiftly coming to the forefront. _Everyone_ was dead, except for him. Elaine, Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon, Dudley, the crying babies... They were all face down in the water around Harry, while he lived and breathed above the surface. It was the only logical conclusion. If other people were alive, they would be screaming just like him. They would be desperate to find another human being, another survivor in this icy, blue hell.

This time, even pure willpower could not prevent the sob from cracking through his hard exterior and escaping Harry's mouth. The sound that ripped through the crash site was a loud cry, equivalent to the howl of a wounded animal. The overwhelming desire to be heard fueled the small boy's wailing, which carried over the vast blue water around Harry for over two minutes. His brain screamed at him to calm down, to get back in control, but no matter how many deep breaths he tried to take, the soothing rush of air in his chest did not stop him from feeling hopeless, from feeling angry.

Harry's fury was directly tied to his survival. Why was he the only one left alive? What made him so special? There were so many other people on that plane who were better than him, who had more to live for than the eight year old. They had families and friends who loved them and who would have done anything to keep them safe. His parents must have loved him while they were alive, but no one who was not buried six feet underground loved Harry. No one cared whether he lived or died. He could have disappeared forever into the ocean and no one would have ever noticed.

'It's not natural…' Harry could almost hear Elaine's voice on the wind. At the time, the older woman had been complaining about the plane's ability to fly, but Harry was certain she would agree this too, that his survival of the crash had defied the natural order.

'Only freaks survived plane crashes,' Uncle Vernon whispered in his ear.

'How could you survive a car crash _and_ a plane crash in eight years?' Aunt Petunia hissed. 'There must be something wrong with you. No one should be that lucky.'

'It's not fair!' Dudley whined. 'I want to live too!'

Harry groaned and with one hand, grabbed the front of his head, wishing for the voices to leave him alone. He knew they were fixtures of his imagination, something his brain concocted to keep him company in the middle of the ocean, but they were only making him feel worse.

"It's just a dream. It's just a dream," Harry whispered repeatedly under his breath like a prayer. He hoped fixating his mind on one thing, even if it was clearly false, would distract him, to help him squash the growing desire to let go of the piece of the debris and allow the ocean to take him like everyone else. He was in a lot of pain, his leg felt like it was on fire, and it would be so easy just to let go…

'No!' his brain screamed. 'Keep going!'

"It's just a dream. It's just a dream. It's just a dream. It's just a dream…"

Harry repeated this mantra for a few more minutes until he felt his eyelids grow heavier. The small boy knew he _had_ to stay awake if he wanted to continue to live, but he was so tired… Maybe, he could just close his eyes for a little while and rest. It would help him conserve his strength. Yes, that sounded like a good plan…

"Oi, Reggie!" a man's voice cried out about twenty minutes later, cutting through the thick fog that had settled around Harry's brain. "I think we have a live one! I can see his chest is movin' up an' down!"

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph," a second man replied, his raspy voice filled with awe. "We've gotta' get 'im out of the water before he catches his death! Quickly now!"

There was movement in the water and the eight year old could hear the dull purr of an engine. Whatever was out in the ocean was coming closer and closer. It was not until Harry suddenly warmth caressing his face and had bright glow shining through his eyelids that he knew someone had turned a spotlight directly on him from only a few feet away.

"I'll go in to get him out of the water, Reggie," the first man said, his voice louder now that he was closer to Harry. "Hand me a life jacket."

"Jimmy, you could catch hypothermia. There has to be another way-"

"The longer we leave him in there, the smaller the chance he'll live to see the end of the day. This is the only way."

"If you're sure…"

There might have been a response, but Harry did not catch it over the rumble of the engine near him. Instead, the eight year old heard rushed footsteps against a metal surface, the hard snap of Velcro and a few moments later, a harsh slapping sound as someone had splashed into the water close to the boy.

"Christ almighty, this is bloody freezing!"

"There's no turnin' back now, Jim. You've gotta get the kid."

There was a loud grunt and then, something hit the water repeatedly in a rhythmic pattern. It hit the water's surface again and again as the sound came closer to Harry. Moments later, the sound stopped abruptly and the eight year old felt a presence next to him. Something soft and smooth was pressing against his back and over the whipping wind, Harry could hear someone panting. For the first time in almost an hour, a person, a living and breathing person, was behind him.

"Kid?"

Someone was gently shaking his shoulder, but Harry could not even open his eyes. He tried to let out a grunt to acknowledge the question, but it came out as a soft murmur that was not even heard by his rescuer who was only inches away. After spending so much time in the ocean, the eight year old was extremely weak and knew he was fading quickly. He needed to get out of the water immediately or he would be joining the other passengers of Flight 1326 in death very soon.

"He's in a bad way, Reg," the person muttered from behind Harry. "I need to get him off this bit of plane before I tow him to the boat."

"Make sure you're careful Jimmy," the second man advised from the boat. "You've gotta' maneuver that leg 'ight. I can see from 'ere it's caught on somethin'."

"Don'tcha worry. I've got the boy."

Suddenly, Harry felt someone fiddling with his leg below the water. Their hands explored the area where the small boy's leg had been pierced by the piece of debris. The person began to lightly tug on Harry's leg to try to free it, but the leg would not budge.

"Sorry for this," the man behind Harry muttered and then, the hands sharply tugged the boy's leg backwards. The eight year old let out an audible gasp from the rush of fiery, hot pain that instantly started to radiate from his leg and spread through the rest of his body with the ripping intensity of a thousand little knives. It was too much for Harry, whose voice was now so hoarse from calling out to other survivors that he could not even scream to unleash some of his agony. The only thing the small body's body could do to protect itself at this moment was to shut down. Harry's eyes rolled into the back of his head and he slumped forward, losing consciousness completely.

"Oh god, that leg is bleedin' somethin' awful," Reggie moaned, as he watched the water turn a pale shade of red around Jimmy and the small boy. The fisherman did not realize from the boat how deep the metal penetrated the kid's skin. When he had first spotted the first body that seemed to be still breathing, Reggie had been hopeful they would be able to save the boy. Jimmy and he would then be hailed as heroes and maybe, they could use their story to pick up a few birds at the pub. But now, with all of the blood currently in the water, Reggie would be shocked if the lad even made it to shore breathing. With the boy's death, the two friends would continue to be nothing but two scraggly, overworked fishermen.

"You don't think I notice that?" Jimmy snapped back at his friend, as he pulled the child- God, he was ice cold- against his chest. The sailor planned to keep the boy's head above the water by keeping it on his chest, while he swam backwards towards his fishing boat. It was a technique he had picked up as a lifeguard when he was a young lad.

Jimmy was fortunate the boy was incredibly light because it was not too difficult, despite the freezing water temperatures, to tow the child to his fishing boat and then pushing him up towards Reggie, who had been waiting to grab the lad out of the water. After Reggie rested the boy lightly on the deck, he offered a hand to Jimmy and pulled the other fisherman back on board.

As soon as Jimmy was on deck, he started trembling from head to toe. The March water had chilled him to the bone and he had only been in it for a few minutes. The boy must have been in the ocean for at least an hour and needed to be immediately warmed or he would die from hypothermia. In fact, it was a miracle the lad was not dead already. Usually, hypothermia killed within twenty minutes. Jimmy stared at the boy in wonderment.

'I guess if the lad could survive a plane crash, hypothermia would be nothing,' he thought.

With shaking hands, Jimmy helped Reggie lift the young survivor into their 'somewhat' warmer cabin. Instantly, the two men stripped the boy, wanting to rid him of the burden of soaking wet clothes. Once he was in his underwear, they threw as many blankets as they could on top of the lad, determined to warm him up as soon as possible.

"Radio in the medic boat, Reg," Jimmy said, pulling a blanket around his own shoulders. It would not help Reggie or the boy if he developed hypothermia too. "An' get me a first aid kit. We'll need to patch 'im up a bit before they get 'ere."

Reggie nodded and then, went to the bridge to grab the radio. Jimmy sat down besides the boy. He continued to be amazed his chest was moving up and down. It still did not make sense that the lad had a heartbeat but Jimmy knew the next time he was at Church, he would light a candle in thanks.

A few minutes later, Jimmy heard the pounding of footsteps as they rushed down the stairs of the bridge. Reggie appeared moments later, panting and holding out the first aid kit for Jimmy who had more experience from being a lifeguard. Jimmy accepted the box with only slightly shaking hands now that he had warmed up a little and then, set to work, pulling back the boy's blankets to reveal his mangled left leg.

"Christ," Reggie whispered over Jimmy's shoulder. "Thank god the medics will be over in a few minutes…" Jimmy began to clean the wound, while his fellow fisherman watched. Reggie, who was never one for silence, began to ramble, "The medics didn't believe me when I first told em', Jim. Apparently, no one should've lived through that plane crash. They said it was a miracle."

Jimmy, who was focused on the leg, only grunted in response. His fellow fisherman frowned at the dismissal, but quieted on account of the severity of the situation. However, after thirty seconds, Reggie broke the silence between them again.

"Hey Jimmy, do you think this boy will be famous?"

The man glared at his companion for interrupting him again, but decided if he wanted to get Reggie off his back for at least a little bit, he would have to appease the other man.

"If he's the only one who lives, I would think so," Jimmy replied, while cleaning blood off the lad's shin. "The papers are gonna' have field day with 'im- pictures, interviews, the whole bit… I betcha by the end of the week every man, woman or child will know his name. He'll be the Boy-Who-Lived."

"The Boy-Who-Lived," Reggie repeated the nickname slowly as he looked out the cabin's window. In the distance, he saw light-up ships with green crosses on the side coming towards them. The medics were almost here. "I like the ring to that."

* * *

A/N: Towards the beginning of the chapter, when I said Harry was getting picked last in football, I meant soccer to any American folks out there. I just wanted to clear that up, so no one thought skinny, tiny Harry was out there with shoulder pads and a helmet. That would be quite the sight.

I also want to thank everyone for the responses from last chapter. I was completely blown away from how many people took interest in this story. It's an author's dream come true, so thank you for making me **very** happy.

I know I told you all I have multiple chapters written and I do, but after the response from the first chapter, I knew I had to make this perfect. I basically re-wrote it (with a broken arm for the record… I like this story THAT much) because I want to hold myself to a high standard for this chapter and every chapter after that. Next chapter should be released fairly quickly (unless I go on an editing spree) because it's more of an interlude between Harry being rescued and Harry interacting with the Muggle PM… So, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

"The Boy Who Lived"

By: hodorhodorhodor

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**206 Feared Dead After Plane Crashes Into the Atlantic, 1 Survivor So Far.**

By: M.J. Miser  
Brest, France. March 14th, 1988.

_A British Airways passenger jet, Flight 1326, crashed into the Atlantic Ocean yesterday. The Boeing 777 with 207 people aboard fell from the sky off the coast of Brest, France around 4 P.M., officials said. A top British official said the plane, which was traveling from London to Rome, was flying at about 5,000 meters (nearly 16,000 feet) when it began experiencing mechanical problems._

_After sending out a distress call to Charles de Gaulle Airport, the plane took a sharp dive into the Atlantic Ocean and exploded on impact. At this point, officials have only found one survivor, a young boy who is currently in critical condition at Centre Hospital in Brest. Other survivors have not been found and British Prime Minister, Gordon Rollins, fears for the worst._

"_To be perfectly honest, it is a miracle this little boy survived the crash," said Rollins in front of international media in Brest yesterday. "I have spoken to multiple aviation officials this afternoon and they have informed me because of the sharp angle the plane hit the water that this crash should have killed all of those on board instantly. I do not want to sound pessimistic, but I will be very surprised if more survivors are discovered."_

_Besides their frantic search for survivors in the icy Atlantic, officials are racing to explore all the wreckage to try to uncover exactly what happened to Flight 1326. The black box has not been found yet, but both the French Prime Minister, Nikolas Cornett, and Rollins have praised rescue workers and aviation officials for their round the clock work at the crash site._

"_This is a terrible tragedy, but answers will be given to the families of the victims," Rollins insisted. "This will be no consolation for the lives already lost, but the British government will use the information pulled from the crash site to make sure this never happens again." _

**Boy-Who-Lived In Stable Condition, Moved To Royal London Hospital.**

By: Arya Wolfram  
London, England. March 20th, 1988.

_Seven days after the fatal crash of British Airways Flight 1326 that killed 206 people, Harry Potter or as he has been dubbed by the world, the 'Boy-Who-Lived', was deemed to be in stable condition by French doctors and allowed to be airlifted to Royal London Hospital. _

_The eight year old had suffered from a severely broken leg (which underwent an operation in France), hypothermia, a minor concussion and multiple abrasions to his legs, arms and face as a result of the plane's plunge into the Atlantic. French doctors have been amazed by Potter's so far "speedy" recovery and are confident he has the ability to return to "near perfect physical health" if the therapy regiment is successful. _

_Outside Royal London Hospital, hundreds of Potter's supporters have sported signs wishing the Boy-Who-Lived well and are praising him as Britain's 'miracle child.' Some of the most avid fans have sworn to reporters that they will be outside of Royal London Hospital, despite temperatures of four degrees Celsius, until Potter can walk out the doors himself. Luckily for these fans, they might not have to wait too long._

"_Harry Potter is truly the 'Boy-Who-Lived,'" the head of Royal London Hospital, Doctor Richard Landry, told reporters during a press conference. "We've only had him at the hospital for a few hours now and I can already see how he survived the crash. The boy is an astonishingly quick healer and on top of that, he is a fighter through and through. I would not be shocked if we were ready to release Potter to a rehab facility at the end of next week."_

_This is probably welcome news for Potter, who still needs to attend the burial of his last living relatives Petunia (29), Vernon (31) and Dudley Dursley (8). The Dursleys all perished in Flight 1326 on their way with their nephew to a family vacation to Italy. The services are scheduled to take place in his hometown of Little Whinging in Surrey once Potter is healthy enough to attend. _

**Who Exactly is the 'Boy-Who-Lived?'**

By: Cassandra Teufel  
London, England. March 23rd, 1988

_Harry James Potter has been a hot topic the last ten days. He has been brought up on the nightly news broadcast every day since Flight 1326 crashed into the Atlantic Ocean. His name is constantly splashed across the newspapers and magazines. He cannot even be evaded in your local pub. Britain's 'Miracle Child,' as his avid fans call young Harry, is everywhere you turn- a symbol of hope in a dark time for our country. _

_But, who exactly are we taking comfort in? We see Harry as a symbol, but do we know him as a person? After visiting Harry's hometown of Little Whinging and a trip to Godric's Hollow, I have been able to paint a basic picture of the Boy-Who-Lived. _

_Harry James Potter was born to Lily (nee Evans) Potter and her husband, James, on July 31__st__, 1980. Not much is known about Harry's parents, but when I talked to their former neighbors in the small village of Godric's Hollow, they sung Mr. and Mrs. Potter's praises._

"A_t the boarding school they attended together as teenagers, they were top students," a woman named Bathilda Bagshot told me outside of her Godric's Hollow home. "They were very bright, lively and seemed like a very happy young couple. I had them over for tea often while they were alive. They were always polite and respectful."_

"_When Lily was pregnant with Harry, she visited my bookstore quite frequently," local business owner, Henrietta Johnson, said. "Lily was always such a kind soul. Every time she came in, she asked about my little Angelina and sometimes, Lily even baked cookies for her. I was devastated when I found out Lily had died. It was awful." _

_State records indicate that Lily and James Potters deaths were a result of a car accident on October 31__st__, 1981. An accident report says that Harry had been in the car at the time of his parents' deaths, but only received an abrasion to his forehead. This matches up with my insider sources, who tell me that the Boy-Who-Lived has a lightning-bolt shaped scar on his forehead._

_Harry's story continued in the small Surrey town of Little Whinging. After his parents' deaths, he was placed with his last living known relatives, Vernon and Petunia Dursley. Petunia was Lily Potter's older sister, making her Harry's aunt by blood. The Dursleys raised Harry alongside their son, Dudley, who was the same age as his cousin. Neighbors of the Dursleys praised the family as being "very close" and "quite generous" for taking their nephew into their home. Adults have characterized Harry as "quiet" and "respectful," while one little girl, Jacqueline Harrison, 7, wished Harry had "came out to play more often. He seemed nice."_

_School officials at the Boy-Who-Lived's primary school described him as "a shy, but helpful boy," and wished him a speedy recovery. I attempted to do some further digging, but I could find little else about Britain's 'Miracle Child.' It seems he lived a very private life until this moment. This reporter hopes that was once Harry is well an interview can bring this apparently shy boy out of his shell._

**Fans of the Boy-Who-Lived Treated for Hypothermia**

By: Lizza Blake  
London, England. March 24th, 1988

_It is no secret Harry Potter's fame has skyrocketed over a week after British Airways Flight 1326 took its fatal plunge into the Atlantic Ocean off the coast of Brest, France. His name has been in every news broadcast all over the world and written in every paper. He has many fans and well-wishers throughout the world, who have sent cards, flowers and stuffed animals to the bedside of Potter. However, there is a group that has proven itself willing to take their obsession with the sole-survivor to the next level._

_This group has been dubbed by members as the 'Potterheads.' The 'Potterheads' is an avid fan club, mainly consisting of women and teenagers, who have spent days in front of the Royal London Hospital, waiting for their hero to be released. They can be commonly identified from the red, lightning-bolt symbol they have drawn on their foreheads. This symbol is said to match the supposed scar on Potter's own forehead, which was reportedly received after the 1981 car crash that killed both of his parents, Lily and James Potter._

_The 'Potterheads' have been a constant source of frustration for hospital officials, who have complained of loud chanting, overcrowded parking lots and the harassment of employees about Potter's condition. The 'Potterheads' have camped out in a designated area of the hospital parking lot, battling nearly freezing temperatures and exhaustion for the sake of Potter, who they have dubbed Britain's 'Miracle Child.'_

"_He is an inspiration to us all," Jill Jefferson, 24, said outside of the Royal London Hospital. "If he could survive in an ice cold ocean, than we could tough it out for a few days in the cold too."_

_Unfortunately, not everyone could 'tough it out'. The Royal London Hospital has had to admit fourteen of the 'Potterheads' to be treated for mild hypothermia over the course of the last eleven days. They were all fine and released back into the parking lot to continue their watch for Potter._

"_Go home," hospital spokesperson, Mandy Marshall, begged the 'Potterheads' on Tuesday morning. "Mr. Potter will take no comfort in knowing people are practically freezing to death just for him. Please let us treat Mr. Potter in peace."_

_Marshall's words have been mostly ignored by the 'Potterheads' who continue to watch for Potter to walk through the doors of Royal London._

"_We won't ever stop caring about Harry," Ray Willow, 16, said firmly after Marshall returned inside the hospital. "A lot of us are convinced that if Harry could survive an 'unsurvivable' crash than he must have a greater purpose on this Earth. He needs to know that we all support him in that purpose, whatever it is. He needs to know that even though his family is gone, he is not alone. We will be his new family and we will stand behind him."_

**Rollins And Wife Visiting Boy-Who-Lived.**

By: Penny Fox  
London, England. March 25th, 1988.

_Reports have surfaced that Prime Minister Rollins and his wife, Heather Rollins, have been at the bedside of Harry Potter more frequently than the public realized. Sources inside Royal London Hospital have informed me that the Prime Minister visits for at least an hour every day, while Mrs. Rollins has spent hours with Potter._

"_She [Heather Rollins] attends physical therapy with Potter, eats meals with him and even brought books for him yesterday," my source told me. "She dotes on him constantly. It's nice of her- don't get me wrong- but it's kind of odd. She's not his mother after all."_

_Questions have been raised about who would obtain custody of Potter, who was an orphan previous to the March 13__th__ plane crash that killed his last living relatives, after his release from treatment facilities. Has Mrs. Rollins, 42 and childless, decided she wants to sink her claws into the Boy-Who-Lived because her maternal instincts have finally kicked in? Or do the Prime Minister and his wife want to use Potter's popularity to help boost his slipping poll numbers? Stay tuned for further developments. _

**Boy-Who-Lived Released From Royal London, Prime Minister And Wife Attending Services.**

By: Robert Goulding  
London, England. March 28th, 1988.

_Harry Potter, 8, has been released from the Royal London Hospital. Using one crutch and limping towards a tinted black SVU, the Boy-Who-Lived- who looked taken aback by the huge crowd outside the hospital- timidly waved to his screaming supporters as he was helped into the vehicle. Doctors told the media that Potter has made excellent progress over the last two weeks, but still requires months of rehabilitation for his left leg that was severely broken as a result of the March 13__th__ plane crash._

_The Boy-Who-Lived will be traveling to Little Whinging in Surrey to attend the service for his aunt, uncle and cousin, who perished in the fatal crash caused by dual engine failure that left 206 of the 207 passengers and crew members of British Airways Flight 1326 dead. The time and location of the service was not released to the media but according to sources, it will take place this upcoming Friday._

_The services for the Dursley family will be attended by the Prime Minister and his wife according to his press release issued by his publicist, Georgina Hayes. It reads as follows:_

My wife and I have grown close to Harry over the last two weeks and will be attending the service for the Dursley family to support him during this extremely difficult time. Heather and I ask for privacy on behalf of Harry, who has already gone through so much in the last two weeks. We thank you in advance for your cooperation.

_The attendance of the Prime Minister and his wife at the service has added more fuel to the rumor mill, which has speculated for the last week that Mr. and Mrs. Rollins wish to adopt the Boy-Who-Lived. Whether there is truth to that matter cannot be confirmed at this time. Hayes has asked for no questions regarding that topic until the Prime Minister is ready to address it._

"_The Prime Minister's prime focus is Flight 1326 and finding the answers to why those engines failed the airplane," Hayes informed the media at a press conference yesterday. "Any family matters will be reserved for a later time."_

* * *

So here is my interlude chapter... I hope you appreciated the newspaper/magazine form. I used it in order to keep the story moving and not keep us stuck in a hospital setting, where things can get weighed down. The next chapter will be bringing us back to Little Whinging and is filled with a lot of magical related drama, so stay tuned.

Side notes: For those who have reviewed both of my previous chapters, I wanted to thank you by adding Easter eggs into this chapter that are tied to all of you (some of them might not be as obvious, so I apologize if you do not recognize them). Also, for those who are interested, I updated my profile which now provides my inspiration for this story and other goodies.

Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

The Boy Who Lived

Chapter 4

* * *

Harry James Potter wished he had never left the cupboard under the stairs on March 13th, 1988.

If Uncle Vernon had just managed to convince Aunt Petunia to let him stay at Number Four, he would have still been Harry and not the 'Boy-Who-Lived' or 'Britain's miracle child' or any of the ridiculous nicknames people have been giving him the last two weeks. The eight year old would have been blissfully ignorant of the plane crash until he was discovered by the police in the Dursley's home or Mrs. Figg. Harry would have had no connections to Flight 1326, besides his three deceased relatives, and would have been allowed to live out the rest of his childhood without any unnecessary attention in an orphanage. It would have been much more preferable to this… this madness.

Harry _hated_ his new celebrity status with a fiery passion. Why should he be famous for something that he could barely remember? Why should he receive more attention than Elaine or the couple across the aisle or the pilots or the babies on board? Their memories should be constantly publicized, not Harry and his continuously beating heart. Those victims and their families had lost _everything _while Harry… well, he just lost the three people in this world who despised his very existence.

"Are you alright, dear?" Mrs. Rollins asked in the seat next to him, giving his hand a squeeze.

Harry looked up into the face of the woman who had treated him with extreme kindness the last two weeks. When he woke up in a hospital bed in France, he had instantly begun to panic, believing he was still floating in the middle of the ocean. Harry had thrashed around on his hospital bed until Mrs. Rollins gripped his hand and started whispering soothing things in his ear. At her touch, the eight year old felt as if she had just wrapped in a warm blanket and tucked him into bed. It was a feeling Harry had not experienced ever since his mother had died in that car crash seven and a half years ago. He had felt safe, secure and most importantly, loved. It was wonderful.

Mrs. Rollins's kindness did not end on that first night in France. Every day, she came to the hospital with books for Harry to read, stuffed animals, movies and baked goods from home that were a nice change from icky hospital food. Mrs. Rollins spent hours sitting with Harry, talking with Harry and even attended physical therapy sessions with Harry.

The woman was truly an angel to the eight year old, but Harry wondered when this kindness would come to a halt. Based off his experience, adults were only nice to him when they wanted the eight year old to do something for them. Mrs. Figg gave Harry cookies when he mowed her lawn. The librarian smiled at Harry and presented him with a lollipop when he helped her organize the non-fiction section. His teachers only praised Harry when he managed to complete homework that Dudley did not rip up afterwards. So far, Mrs. Rollins had asked for nothing in return for her kindness and the eight year old was waiting for the catch. It was impossible for an adult to treat him this nicely, if they did not want anything from him. There had to be _something _Mrs. Rollins desired.

"I'm okay," he whispered back, trying his hardest not to shiver.

They were sitting in the first row of a _very_ cold church in Little Whinging. In front of Harry were three coffins, one extremely large one, a medium sized one and a smaller, but wider one. His uncle, aunt and cousin were being buried today after a quick service at Bethel Chapel.

Harry knew he should be crying- that was the normal thing to do after all- but no tears would come out for the three people in the world who had made him the most miserable. Instead, he wondered how Elaine Kirk's funeral went. It had taken place last week after her body was returned to her three children, Monica Jones, Arthur Kirk and John Kirk. Harry hoped it was beautiful and they said a lot of prayers- especially the Hail Mary. She would have liked that.

The eight year old had been upset he had not been able to attend the service, since he was holed up in the hospital. Harry told Mrs. Rollins all about the kind lady who had taught him the Hail Mary before they crashed and how he wished he could say goodbye to her. She suggested that he should write her children a letter expressing his sympathy. Mrs. Rollins told him Elaine's children would probably be grateful to hear she spent the last moments of her life in good company.

A chorus of "On Eagle's Wings" broke out from the rafters above and Harry knew it was time to process out of the church. The eight year old grabbed his crutch and used it to lever himself out of the pew. Mrs. Rollins offered Harry her hand and they followed the coffins out of the church. Her husband, the Prime Minister, followed behind them, his face set in a frown.

Harry was not sure what to make of Prime Minister Rollins. The man had visited him every day in the hospital, but he was always so _serious_. In fact, Harry was not sure if he ever saw the Prime Minister crack a smile once in the last two weeks. Their interactions were always relatively short and mostly literature based. The older man was impressed by Harry's love for books and they discussed whatever the eight year old was reading at the current moment. Sometimes, the Prime Minister would even give Harry recommendations, when he finished a book.

The drive to the cemetery took ten minutes and the burial was even shorter on account of the media presence. Even though the reporters were outside the gates of the graveyard, the camera flashes were hard to ignore. When the last flower was thrown on top of the coffins, Harry was glad to retreat to the safety of the Prime Minister's black SUV.

"You know it's perfectly alright to cry Harry," Mrs. Rollins told him softly as they drove away from the cemetery. "No one will think lesser of you."

"Heather, if Harry wants to shed any tears, he will do it on his own," the Prime Minister admonished his wife. "He doesn't need you to coax it out of him."

Mrs. Rollins glared at her husband, "Gordon-" she began, but a smaller voice cut her off.

"I just don't feel like crying right now," Harry told the woman. "I… I did a lot of it while I was in the hospital."

This was partially true, though the eight year old had not necessarily cried over the Dursleys. He wept for Elaine and all of the other innocent people who had died on the airplane, while he had _lived_. Unfortunately, Harry was still unable to move passed this fact. It clawed at him every night in his dreams. It stung at him when people called him the 'Boy-Who-Lived.' It punched him in the gut as he read about _another_ funeral for a victim of Flight 1326 in the newspaper. Two weeks later, he still did not understand why he alone was given the gift of life, while it was denied to two hundred and six other people.

"We're here," the driver announced from the front seat.

Harry looked out the window and found himself staring at Number Four, Privet Drive. The boy's eyes widened when he saw that the once immaculate garden was now overwhelmed with weeds and the lawn did not look as crisply cut as it usually did. The grass had yellowed and was now about mid-calf in height. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon would be throwing a fit, if they saw what had become of their 'pristine property.' If Number Four was not being given leniency for its dead occupants, the house would have been considered the disgrace of Privet Drive by the neighbors.

However, what was an even bigger shock to Harry was the 'For Sale' sign that was nailed into the lawn. Even though he never considered the house his 'home,' it was still where he spent the majority of his time growing up. It was weird imagining another family that was not the Dursleys cooking dinner in the kitchen or watching the telly in the living room. What would they use the cupboard under the stairs for? They couldn't possibly keep another child in there. Maybe, they would hang coats inside of it?

"Harry, your aunt is throwing a reception," Mrs. Rollins's voice cut through his thoughts.

"She's not my aunt," Harry cut in quickly and with a hint of anger laced into his voice.

He regretted his display of emotion instantly. Both Mr. and Mrs. Rollins were scrutinizing him, wondering why such a calm and friendly child had such a defensive tone now. Harry knew he needed to reign in his feelings or they would start asking questions.

Questions were always a no-no for Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon. The eight year old used to be punished if a teacher sent home a note about his rumpled appearance or if another parent asked if Harry could come over to play. Even though the Dursleys were in the ground five miles away, there would always be a part of Harry that would fear them, waiting for them to pop back up and punish him again. It was better for the boy in the long run to keep his mouth shut, than to reveal that his relatives had been monsters. Life would be simpler for him that way.

"Yes, I guess she was your uncle's sister and not your bloody directly," Mrs. Rollins continued, still gazing at the eight year old curiously. "But it would be nice to talk to others who knew your family. Doctor Mayer thinks it would be a great way to start moving towards closure."

Doctor Mayer was the psychologist Harry had started to see after the crash. The eight year old was wary of the older man, whose probing questions consistently made Harry feel uncomfortable. The boy was _very_ glad when his hour with the psychologist was up and always dreaded their next set appointment.

After Harry agreed to go inside Number Four, a man in a black suit with a gun attached to his hip helped him out of the car. As soon as he took a step onto the pavement, the eight year old had to use his free hand to shield his eyes. Camera flashes were going off all around the boy, blinding him. Reporters were screaming his name. They asked about the Dursley's service. They asked whether he enjoyed the company of the Prime Minister and his wife. They asked what he thought would happen to him next.

A sharp tug on Harry's arm pulled him out of his daze. The small boy looked up and saw it was the Prime Minister who was leading him up the path to the front door. The older man was muttering under his breath about 'disrespectful bottom feeders' and 'bloody harpies,' while wearing a scowl on his face. Harry felt the corners of his mouth tug upwards at the older man's comments. It was the first time the Prime Minister had been amusing to the eight year old. It was a welcome change to his usual serious and collected self.

Harry was pulled over the threshold of Number Four and the door closed quickly behind them. The eight year old let out a breath he had not realized he was holding and leaned heavily against his crutch.

"The nerve of them!" Mrs. Rollins growled. The older woman looked angrier to Harry than he had ever seen her before. "We asked them to respect Harry's privacy and instead, they crawl all over the front lawn like a bunch of leeches, Gordon!"

The Prime Minister sighed and his scowl quickly disappeared from his face. The man reminded Harry of Uncle Vernon when he had a particularly difficult day at work. He always asked Aunt Petunia to fetch him a tumbler of brandy and collapsed into the easy-chair by the telly. The Prime Minister looked as if he would not mind something similar at the moment.

"Here's a lesson for you, Harry," the Prime Minister said, while looking down at the small boy. "The media are a bunch of soulless bastards who would not respect even the privacy of their own dying mothers if they were asked. You should give them bits and pieces every now and then to keep them satisfied, but never cave completely because you owe them absolutely nothing."

"Gordon, language!" Mrs. Rollins scolded, covering Harry's ears. But the boy had already heard the entire bit and found himself nodding appreciatively to the Prime Minister's advice. The eight year old had a feeling he would be having issues with the press for a while, if this Boy-Who-Lived nonsense was going to continue.

"The boy's here," Harry heard a familiar voice slur.

It was a well known fact in the Dursley family that Uncle Vernon's sister, Marge, despised Harry. Whenever she came to visit, she not only insulted the boy from his messy hair to his scraggly clothes to his 'drunks of parents,' but also set her dogs on him. When Harry was six, he had to climb a tree to avoid being mauled. When he was four, a bulldog had nipped at his hand and Marge had _rewarded_ the creature with a bone. Of course, the Dursleys did nothing to stop this abuse. They laughed at Harry and told him he should have run faster if he didn't want to be bit.

As they approached his 'aunt,' Mrs. Rollins placed a hand on Harry's shoulder. The boy noticed her grip was tighter than normal.

"We're sorry for your loss," she told Marge, keeping her voice polite.

The beefy woman ignored the Prime Minister's wife and focused her efforts on Harry instead.

"How'd ya' do it, boy?" she asked, slopping some of her bourbon onto the white rug. Aunt Petunia would have screamed if she saw the brown stain. "Vernon was always rambling on about how much of a freak you are. I betcha' you did something strange to escape the crash… But you- you just saved yourself, didn't you? You couldn't have saved the only people who put a roof over your head though. You're a selfish little shite. I always told Vernon the same-"

"That is quite enough," the Prime Minister cut in, his voice as cold as ice. "We are sorry for your loss, ma'm, but my wife and I will not stand to hear you insult Harry this way. He has been through more in the last two weeks than anyone should ever go through in their entire life and does not need your ridicule on top of it. Now, if you excuse us-"

"No, no, no, you won't be excused," Marge told him, her face purpling from anger. She was probably appalled that anyone had the gall to stand up for Harry in front of her. "This boy is nothin' but bad news. His parents died with him in the car. His aunt, uncle and cousin died with him in the airplane... He's a curse to anyone who goes near him. If you knew what was good for this country, the boy would be put down like a dog-"

CRACK!

The glass in Marge's hand exploded, shattering all over the floor and staining the carpet with the amber liquid. A few of the guests let out gasps and rushed forward to assist her, but the beefy woman waved off their concern.

"Always had a tight grip," Marge explained gruffly, while wiping her hands on her grey slacks. "Now, where is that boy…"

The beefy woman looked around the room, but the eight year old was nowhere to be found. When the glass shattered, Harry had used the distraction to flee the living room and head for the one part of Number Four where he knew he could find privacy- the cupboard under the stairs.

With the presence of his crutch, his bedroom was smaller than it had ever been before. Harry had to squeeze in to shut the door behind him. He then reached his hand up blindly in the dark and tugged at the string, he knew would turn on the dingy bulb above his head. Instantly, the cramped space was illuminated.

Harry's drawings of the flying motorcycle were still on the walls and "Charlotte's Web" was on the pillow, just as he had left it on the morning of the plane crash. The eight year old smiled slightly at his old toy soldiers, which had not been moved and were lined up on the side of his lumpy bed. He picked one up and was having it engage in a sword fight with another, when the cupboard's door swung open.

"Harry?"

The eight year old turned around and saw the Prime Minister, Mrs. Rollins and to his surprise, Mrs. Figg- When had she met the Rollins family?- staring at him as if he grew a second head. The boy realized they must have been shocked by his 'bedroom.' Harry could feel the blood rushing to his face and sweat began to break out on his upper lip. He did not want them to ask any questions...

"Was this where you slept at night, Harry?" Mrs. Rollins asked. Her voice was calm, but the eight year old could detect a dangerous edge to it.

Harry had always been dreadful at lying, "Uhhhhh…" his voice trailed off, but the damage was already done. All three adults' expressions had darkened and Harry knew he had confirmed their suspicion.

"Why don't we talk in the kitchen, dear?" Mrs. Rollins suggested, but from the way her blue eyes were gleaming, Harry knew there would be no way out of it.

The eight year old nodded glumly, grabbed his copy of "Charlotte's Web" off his pillow and followed the three adults into the empty kitchen. One of the Prime Minister's guards, a large black man with an impassive face, followed the group inside and closed the door behind them.

Mrs. Rollins immediately went after Mrs. Figg, "You lived next door to Harry for years. Did you know about this? Did you know how these- these people were treating Harry?"

The boy's elderly neighbor was extremely pale, "I- I always knew they made him do a lot more chores than Dudley and that he wasn't as welcome into his family ... B-but I never knew they had been _this_ cruel to the boy. If I had realized, I swear I would've told D-Dumbledore right away."

Several things happened at that moment. The first was Mrs. Figg's hand flew right to her mouth, as if she revealed the world's dirtiest secret. The second was a quick movement from the black security guard in the corner. Harry did not see what the man had done, but suddenly there was a clicking sound and the kitchen seemed to radiate with an oddly familiar sensation to the eight year old that he could not place…

"Dumbledore," the Prime Minister repeated and glanced over at his security guard. "Is he the same man that dumpy wizard Prime Minister mentions when he comes to visit?"

The man nodded, "Yes, Prime Minister, Dumbledore is very influential in the wizarding world because of the power he wields. Dumbledore defeated a dark wizard intent on world domination in the 1945 and now, he's the headmaster of Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry, along with holding several titles within the British wizarding government… Prime Minister Fudge frequently turns to Dumbledore for advice, which is why his name comes up so much in your conversations."

Mrs. Rollins gaped at the two men, "Gordon… what- what are you talking about? Wizards? Another Prime Minister? Is this some kind of joke?"

Mr. Rollins shook his head, "I'm afraid not, my dear," he said solemnly. "If I was not Prime Minister, I would have spent my entire life ignorant of this secret, magical society that exists around us, but on the day I entered office, a man stepped out of my fireplace… At first, I thought I had too much to drink at the celebration dinner, but I was quickly assured that I was not hallucinating. The man, who I found out was Prime Minister Fudge, told me it has been a tradition from the times of King Arthur for the British Wizarding Prime Minister to meet with the leader of the non-magical folk in order for collaboration to exist between the two worlds… Kinglsey here," he motioned to his black security guard, "is actually a police officer sent by the wizarding government to protect me from magical harm."

The security guard stepped forward, "If you wish, I can show you a magical demonstration, ma'm," he told her. "Since you are immediate family to the Prime Minister, you would fall under his security clearance."

However, Mrs. Rollins did not appear to be ready for a demonstration yet. She was gripping the kitchen counter in an attempt to steady herself from the shock that he had just received. The older woman could not comprehend that a magical society with their own government and schools apparently existed without most of the world's notice. With all the technology the government had access to, it seemed impossible for something of this magnitude to evade them.

"But… But how do you hide from the rest of us?" Mrs. Rollins asked. "There's no way we wouldn't notice…"

"We have magic to repel those who are not compatible with our society, ma'm," Kingsley explained. "Even if you managed to stumble across our government building by accident, magic would make you remember an appointment you had forgotten you had booked and you would the leave the place without a second thought."

"That's ludicrous," Mrs. Rollins muttered. "There's no way…"

"Would you like a demonstration, ma'm?" Kingsley offered again.

The Prime Minister's wife nodded, though still looked uncertain, "Yes, please, or I'll never believe it."

The black security guard nodded and then, pulled a long stick out of his sleeve. Harry felt a shiver go up his spine. He had seen one of those before…

A yellow light shot out from the stick and hit the chair at the kitchen table. Immediately, the piece of wood transformed itself into something small and furry. Harry could not believe his eyes. No longer was there a chair in front of him, but a small kitten meowing pathetically up at the five humans.

"Mary, mother of God," Mrs. Rollins muttered next to Harry. "Magic is real."

Kingsley nodded, "Yes, ma'm. Would you like another demonstration?"

The Prime Minister's wife shook her head, "No, I think that's more than one for today. Just turn it back before someone notices."

Harry watched the security guard wave his stick in an intricate pattern and then, the same yellow light shot out again and covered the kitten. A moment later, the chair was back to normal with no fur or tail attached.

"How did you do that without talking?" the boy asked before he could stop himself. Harry had noticed the wizard did not even speak as he transformed the chair. From the fairy tale books he read in the library, there was always an incantation that was needed to perform any spells.

Kinglsey smiled down at the eight year old, "I am advanced enough, Mr. Potter, to do magic without speaking out loud. Maybe one day, you will be too."

Several voices cried out the same time.

"Kingsley!"

"What?"

"Really?"

Mrs. Figg, Mrs. Rollins and Harry had all spoken. There was a brief pause before the boy's neighbor decided to continue talking first.

"Kinglsey, you know Dumbledore gave strict instructions that the boy wasn't to be told he was a wizard until his eleventh birthda-"

"You knew this entire time?" Harry said with a touch of annoyance. If the boy had found out he was a wizard earlier, he would have had something to look forward to while locked away in his cupboard. Instead, he assumed the feeling of helplessness and misery would not leave him until his eighteenth birthday.

"Of course I did, Harry," Mrs. Figg said. "It was the reason I moved onto Privet Drive in the first place… Dumbledore wanted someone from our world to keep tabs on you, while you were staying with your relatives. As a squib, I was the perfect person to do it. I already knew how to adapt to the Muggle world and would fit right in on your block."

"What's a squib?" Harry asked.

"A squib is a person from an entirely magical family, but was born without any magic themselves," she told him. "A lot of squibs are treated cruelly by their birth parents. I've even heard of a few who were murdered as infants… But when I turned seventeen, my parents were confident I could fend for myself. They cast me off into the Muggle world and severed all ties from me… Luckily, I was smart and finding work wasn't too hard, but it was still a hard life."

"That's disgusting," Mrs. Rollins declared, her blue eyes crackling with anger.

But, the Prime Minister saw beyond the sad story.

"Why didn't you tell Dumbledore Harry's relatives were treating him poorly?" he asked. "You clearly noticed some things."

Mrs. Figg bit her lip, "I did. I told him that Harry was being bullied by his cousins and that he seemed to be constantly doing chores… But Dumbledore asked whether Harry seemed to be in danger and I said no. It wasn't as if he was sick or severely injured. He was just unhappy and Dumbledore said that wasn't a drastic enough reason to pull him out of his aunt's blood protection."

"Aunt's blood protection?" Mrs. Rollins repeated. "What does that mean?"

Mrs. Figg exchanged a nervous glance with Kingsley.

"Well, on the night Harry's parents died, a dark wizard that our kind calls 'He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named' showed up on their doorstep… He had been after the Potters for months and finally, on October 31st, 1981, he caught up to them," the squib began to explain. "When He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named entered the house, he killed Harry's father-"

"The Dursleys told me my parents died in a car crash!" the eight year old interrupted, feeling a rush of anger inside of him.

"A car crash killing Lily and James Potter?" Kinglsey said. His voice was laced with a combination of disbelief and a faint hint of disgust at his relatives' lies. "No, they were murdered by the darkest wizard of all time."

"But why am I not dead?" Harry asked. It was a familiar question he had posed himself after Flight 1326. "I was only a baby and my parents… well, they must have known some magic to last longer than me."

The security guard smiled sadly down at the eight year old, "James and Lily were two of the most talented students to pass through the halls of Hogwarts, Mr. Potter… But, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was extremely powerful and quite determined to kill your entire family."

"But, why?" Harry demanded to know.

"No one knows exactly why, Harry," Mrs. Figg cut in. "Some say it was because James and Lily refused to join the dark wizard even after numerous offers. Others say it was because your parents had managed to survive multiple attacks from He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and he wanted to kill them once and for all... But we will never know what exactly was going through He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's mind when he came to your home in Godric's Hollow seven years ago. It will be a mystery, since he is no more."

"What do you mean that 'he is no more?'" Mrs. Rollins asked. "How come he is no longer after Harry? This fellow doesn't seem like he would give up easily."

"Harry killed him," Mrs. Figg replied simply. "When He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named turned his wand on Harry and uttered the Killing Curse, it rebounded off of him and struck down the dark wizard. No one has seen or heard from him since that day. He disappeared completely."

"That doesn't mean he's dead," the Prime Minister cut in. "If there was no body recovered, where is the proof? He could be anywhere."

"He could be still after Harry," Mrs. Rollins added and pulled the eight year old closer to her. The gesture made Harry feel warm in his chest.

"When He-Who-Must-Named attacked the Potter's, he was at the height of his power. He had an extensive group of followers and many historians believe he would have won the war, if he had not gone to Godric's Hollow in 1981," Mrs. Figg told him. "Why would he give all of that up if he was not destroyed?"

"Most people think he's dead," Kinglsey adjoined. "Though there are some that have a similar opinion to you, Prime Minister. They think He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is still out there and bidding his time before he returns to magical Britain… People like Albus Dumbledore also have this opinion, which is why Mr. Potter was placed under the care of his Aunt. She was the last of his blood and that provided him protection from He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named or any of his followers who remained."

"Why would Aunt Petunia's blood protect me?" Harry asked, scrunching his nose at the idea. It sounded very strange that something red and sticky could prevent dark wizards from hurting him…

"On the night He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named came to your home, he offered your mother her life, if she stepped aside and let him kill you. Lily was always a stubborn girl," Kinglsey told the eight year old with a hint of a smirk on his face. Lily Potter's stubbornness must have been well known to elicit that reaction from the usually somber guard, "and she loved you _very_ much, Mr. Potter. She refused to move out of his path and because of that, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named killed her… Your mother gave up her life for you."

Harry could feel the corners of his eyes prickling from a rush of emotion. After spending seven years with his loveless _family_, it was difficult to imagine anyone caring that much for him to sacrifice themselves for him. But his mother had. His brave, stubborn mother could have been alive and breathing today, but decided she would rather die than live in a world without her son. Harry felt a rush of determination rise up from deep inside of him. He would make sure her sacrifice would not be in vain. He would not let Lily Potter down.

"When magic is involved, there is a deeper meaning to sacrifice," Kinglsey continued. "By giving herself up to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, Lily activated an ancient branch of magic that formed a protection over you. This was why for the first time in wizarding history, the Killing Curse did not work on a human being. The protection Lily gave you made the curse rebound and strike down He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."

"That's why Harry, you're so important to a wizard like Albus Dumbledore," Mrs. Figg added. "You're famous in the wizarding world. You are not only the first survivor of the Killing Curse, but you also ended He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's reign of terror. You are the Boy-Who-Lived."

Harry's jaw fell open as soon as the familiar title was spoken by the squib.

"Seriously?" the eight year old asked, overwhelmed with disbelief.

He already _hated_ the fame he was receiving from the plane crash and now, Harry was famous in the wizarding world too? The eight year old could not believe his terrible luck. He had allowed himself to hope for a brief moment that he would escape it all in this new world he was just introduced to but apparently, his celebrity status would always be dogging him, nipping at his heels, no matter where he went.

"I'm afraid so, Mr. Potter," Kinglsey said solemnly.

After spending the last few weeks in the boy's company, Kinglsey could see how uncomfortable Harry had looked around the press and his fans around the hospital. There was a clear resentment towards his new found fame, probably from the circumstances it was acquired from, and the Auror knew it would not get any easier for the boy-wizard going forward. Wizarding press was just as ruthless as the muggle version.

"I hate that nickname," Harry muttered, glaring down at his new pair of loafers Mrs. Rollins had purchased for him before the funeral. "They couldn't have picked anything else?"

Mrs. Figg smiled wanly, "I guess the press in both worlds isn't too creative, Harry."

Silence then blanketed the kitchen as the muggle-raised occupants tried to process all the information presented before them. It was _a lot_ to take in. After a few minutes of quiet contemplation, the Prime Minister was the first to break out of his thoughts.

"So, I think we should return to the issue that concerns me, and I'm certain my wife, the most," Mr. Rollins said, the frown returning to his face, "what will happen to Harry now that his relatives have passed? The blood protection his aunt provided him no longer exists, which leaves Harry in a vulnerable position. I fear for his safety. How will he be protected?"

"Well, that's why I am here actually. I've been ordered to bring Harry back to Albus Dumbledore," Mrs. Figg explained with a small smile in Harry's direction. "Dumbledore wants to bring Harry under his protection at Hogwarts. The school is well known as the safest place in the wizarding world and will be perfect for Harry until he starts to attend school there when he is eleven."

Mrs. Rollins's face darkened.

"Dumbledore wants to bring Harry to Hogwarts?" she repeated, her tone icy. "And this is the same Dumbledore who said he would only pull Harry out of his relatives care if he was severely injured or in danger? And this is the same Dumbledore who implied a child's happiness means nothing compared to a blood protection?"

"Now, now, let's keep this civil," Mrs. Figg began softly, her face quickly turning pale. "If you will just let me explain… Dumbledore said the blood protection would keep Harry the safest-"

"But, you just told us moments ago that Hogwarts is the safest place in the wizarding world," the Prime Minister cut in, his voice as sharp as it used to be when he was a young lawyer standing before the magistrates. "So, why wasn't Harry brought there after his parents were killed? It seems to me that it would have been the most logical solution to insure Harry's safety. Harry would have the most powerful wizard in the world to protect him and he would be connected to his wizarding culture… Instead, this Dumbledore left him with three monsters who lied to him about his parents' deaths, kept him purposefully ignorant about his magic and clearly wished to make Harry's existence miserable!"

Mrs. Figg looked like someone had just slapped her. She glanced over at Kingsley, hoping for his support, but the wizard stared straight ahead, his face remaining impassive.

"D-Dumbledore did not want Harry to grow up with a big head," the squib defended, her brown eyes wild and desperate now as she clawed for a winning argument. "Every man, woman and child in our world knows Harry's name and his story. He was hoping that being raised by Muggles would-"

"Muggles?" Mrs. Rollins cut in.

"Non-magical folks, ma'm," Kinglsey supplied for the Prime Minister's wife, who nodded her thanks.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Figg," Mr. Rollins interrupted. "But, don't you think for someone who possesses as much fame as Harry does should be prepared to take that burden on from an early age? In this world, Harry has just been forced into fame and clearly is struggling to deal with it… I couldn't imagine how successful Harry could adjust to a new world _and_ succeed at his studies, if he had to deal with fame on top of it.

To me, it also seems foolish and dangerous for Harry to enter the wizarding world completely ignorant. He would be vulnerable to manipulation. He would not know which wizards or witches to watch his back around. He would not know how to use his fame to benefit causes he was interested in. I could go on and on with reasons, ma'm, but clearly there are countless drawbacks to this and-"

"It does not matter what you think, Muggle," Mrs. Figg growled, finally losing her patience. "Harry will be going back to the wizarding world whether you like it or not-"

"Oh, I don't think so," Mrs. Rollins cut in; her blue eyes were icy now. "Harry is a British citizen, just like you Mrs. Figg, and as an orphan with no living blood relatives, he falls under the protection of this country. The British government will not stand to see this boy taken from their custody-"

"And the public won't either," the Prime Minister interrupted, sending an apologetic glance towards his wife for cutting her off. "Harry is famous now in the Muggle world, which means he cannot just disappear into thin air. People will be bound to notice his sudden absence and start asking questions. They will demand know what happened to their 'miracle child'… And how would you like me to answer them, ma'm? That a wizard took him to a magical castle to protect him? Do you realize how ludicrous that sounds?"

"But he has to go! Dumbledore said so!" Mrs. Figg cried and Harry wondered for the first time how none of the mourners from the funeral had interrupted them yet. The adults were arguing quite loudly. "Harry can't stay with two Muggles like you! He'll be in danger!"

"I can stay with you?" Harry spoke up for the first time, gazing at Mr. and Mrs. Rollins hopefully.

The eight year old had been paying close attention to their argument and after all the back-and-forth, he had come to a single conclusion: he was not going with this 'Albus Dumbledore' person. Not only did he sound like a foolish man, but this wizard had known the Dursleys were treating Harry poorly and _still_ chose to leave him at Number Four. It was an unforgivable offense in the boy's opinion.

What made Harry's anger even greater towards the man was the thought that Dumbledore could have saved Harry from multiple beatings that left his back scarred and bruised. Dumbledore could have spared Harry from lying in his own urine in the cupboard under the stairs after the Dursleys had locked him in there for over twenty four hours for missing a weed in the garden. Dumbledore could have prevented Harry from dreaming of food for multiple nights because the Dursleys refused to feed him. Harry could have been freed from all of that, but instead he had been left to suffer because his unhappiness was not a 'drastic' enough reason to remove him from his relative's house.

"Gordon and I wanted to have this conversation with you privately, Harry, but unfortunately presence circumstances will make that impossible," Mrs. Rollins said, glancing over at Mrs. Figg nervously as if the older woman would snatch the eight year old up at any moment. "My husband and I have loved the time we have spent with you in the last couple of weeks, Harry. Gordon enjoys talking with such a well-read and intelligent young man and I admire your strength and your sweet nature.

A wonderful boy like you deserves a home with people who love him and if you'd like Harry, I think you will find that if you let us adopt you. We want to take care of you, Harry. We want to make you feel safe and loved… Of course, we could never replace your real parents. Lily and James Potter were evidently brave and selfless individuals who loved you so much they gave up everything in order for you to live. But, Gordon and I will do our best to live up to their memories. We swear we will do everything in our power to make you happy… And I know it's a lot to think about, especially since you were just re-introduced to the wizarding world, but-"

But, it was not a lot to think about for the eight year old. The Rollins's were the best thing that came out of Flight 1326 for Harry Potter. Finally, for the first time in seven years, he had people in his life that cared whether he was happy or not. Finally, for the first time in seven years, he had people in his life that did not want to beat him, starve him and lock him away. Finally, for the first time in seven years, he had people in his life that loved him.

"Yes!" Harry shouted. "Of course, I want to be adopted by you!"

Instantly, the eight year old was pulled into a bone-crushing hug. Mrs. Rollins held onto him as if he was the most precious object in the entire world. Harry felt wetness sink into the back of his shirt and felt the older woman's body shaking and knew she was crying. The eight year old felt tears spill out of his own eyes too. He did not think he had ever been happier in his entire life.

"No," Mrs. Figg muttered under her breath, causing Harry to remember the squib was still in the room. "You can't do this! He won't be safe! He belongs in our world!"

"I will watch over him," a deep voice that Harry knew was Kinglsey's spoke out. "I will make sure Mr. Potter receives the top protections of the Auror Department to ensure his safety and happiness."

Mrs. Rollins released Harry from her embrace and smiled at the guard.

"Thank you, Kinglsey," she whispered and wiped the tears off of her cheeks.

"My pleasure, ma'm," the auror replied, smiling slightly at the sight in front of him. He knew he would catch a lot of heat from the Ministry and Dumbledore for his decision, but the look of pure joy on Harry's face made it well worth it. After a lifetime of mostly misery, the boy deserved some happiness.

"B-but," Mrs. Figg was still stuttering in the corner.

"Go," the Prime Minister commanded; his voice was soft, but forceful. "Tell _Dumbledore_," he spoke the name with a tone of revulsion, "that Harry will be under the care of two people who are actually concerned about his happiness."

Mrs. Figg looked between Harry and Kinglsey, hoping they would change their minds, but when she was met with their cold expressions, the squib let out a whimper before scurrying out of the Dursleys kitchen. She had to return home to Floo Dumbledore with this latest development. The wizard would _not_ be pleased how this conversation went one bit.

"Are you sure that this is what you want, Harry?" the Prime Minister asked the eight year old, once Mrs. Figg had fled the kitchen.

Harry nodded eagerly, "More than anything in the world, sir."

The Prime Minister smiled down at the boy, "Good and call me Gordon, Harry. Sir is way too formal for someone who will be my son."

Harry felt his heart melt with joy. He had not been addressed as 'son' in over seven years. It was a wonderful feeling. It made him feel important and better yet, wanted.

Mrs. Rollins beamed at her husband and her future son, "And please call me Heather, Harry. I would love that more than anything."

"Of course, M- Heather," the boy quickly corrected himself.

"Shall we depart then?" Gordon asked, eyeing the kitchen with disgust. He did not like any bit of the house that was owned by people who had treated Harry so cruelly. The Prime Minister wanted to leave this place as soon as possible.

Heather nodded and thought of Harry's heavily intoxicated aunt in the next room. The woman disgusted her.

"I think that's for the best."

The couple turned to Harry.

"Is there anything you need in this house, Harry?" Gordon asked. "If it is anything big, I can have a moving truck come and fetch it but if it's small, we can take it now in the car."

The eight year old shook his head, "There's nothing here that I want besides 'Charlotte's Web,'" he told the adults, who all frowned.

"Very well," the Prime Minister said, his voice void of the anger he felt deep inside of his chest. Gordon was restraining himself in order not to scare the child. "Kingsley, please call Harrison and make sure the car is ready."

After the guard had a quick conversation with the radio, Harry, Kingsley and the Rollins's were departing Number Four. They said goodbye to no one and exited the house with a loud bang that echoed from the front door behind them.

As soon as they took a step into the cold March air, they were again assaulted by the press. Harry kept his gaze fixed on the ground as Heather led him along the path and towards the car. Luckily, there were guards forming a barrier around the car door to prevent any reporters from getting too close, so they were able to climb into the black SUV without any trouble.

As soon as the car door closed, Harry let out a sigh of relief. He was glad to be able to hear himself think again and the lights that danced in front of his eyeballs from the camera flashes were quickly disappearing. It was nice to get peace and quiet again.

As they sped away from his former house, Harry did not bother to look back. The place held no positive memories for the eight year old and he did not find it worthy of a final gaze. Instead, he kept his green eyes fixed firmly ahead.

"Phoebe, please get in touch with social services," the Prime Minister said into his cellular telephone device as they turned onto the nearest highway. "I want to put a rush order on adoption paperwork for Harry Potter… Yes- well, thank you that's very nice of you to say… Yes, he accepted our offer… I know it's great news…" he let out a soft sigh. "Please, just contact social services and inform them Mr. Potter will be our guest until the paperwork goes through… Do you think there would be an extensive background check on me? Of course not, I'm the bloody Prime Minister, Phoebe. I've been thoroughly vetted enough, don't you think?" Gordon rolled his eyes. "Okay, let me know what they say as soon as possible. Thanks… Bye."

The phone clicked and Harry knew the telephone call was over.

"That girl is going to give me a bloody migraine," Gordon muttered and all the occupants of the car, including the serious Kingsley, burst out into laughter. By the time he was done chuckling, Harry had to wipe tears of mirth out of his eyes.

For an eight year old, who had few reasons to smile, let alone laugh over the last seven years, it was a wonderful way to start his new life.

* * *

So, I hoped this chapter was enjoyable. Thanks again for all the reviews, follows and favorites. All of you are so awesome! The next chapter, we're definitely going to see Dumbledore and Fudge. I'm still debating what the rest of the chapter will contain, but it should be out fairly soon. I appreciate any and all feedback. Thanks!


	5. Chapter 5

The Boy Who Lived

Chapter 5

* * *

Deputy Prime Minister Cornelius Fudge was annoyed.

A half hour ago, Albus Dumbledore had burst into his office demanding his permission to talk face-to-face with the Muggle Prime Minister, Gordon Rollins. Apparently, it was a matter of 'great urgency' regarding the Boy-Who-Lived, Harry Potter.

Usually, Fudge thought little of the wizarding world's hero. Of course, he was grateful for the child. Without the young Harry Potter, the dark shadow of You-Know-Who would still be hanging over the Ministry of Magic and witches and wizards would have continued to die by the droves.

Those had been extremely difficult times for everyone involved with the British magical government. People had been disappearing right and left. Murders took place on the daily. Fear ran rampant. It was hard to not feel useless as a Ministry employee during that time. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had rendered the government completely ineffective. They could not protect their citizens from You-Know-Who's reign of terror and everyone knew it.

The day You-Know-Who was finally defeated was one of the clearest memories Fudge ever had. He could still remember that tawny owl soaring through his open back window and delivering the letter that would change everything. With shaking hands, he had read of the demise of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named at the hands of young Harry Potter aloud to his wife and two children, who had sobbed with relief throughout the letter. It did not shame Fudge to admit that he had joined them. It had been a tremendous relief to hear about the madmen's end. It was as if a weight that had been resting on his chest for years had been finally be removed. Cornelius Fudge was no longer a man who constantly feared for his own life and the lives of his family. He was free. He was safe.

Fudge had toasted to Harry Potter many times that night and in the weeks and months to come after that. The boy was their savior and they spoke Harry's name with the reverence reserved for a king. However, as time passed, the memories of fear and pain were slowly receding in peoples' minds. Harry Potter was still the Boy-Who-Lived, but the wizarding world could not continue to focus on the past. They had to move into the future.

That's why eventually Harry's name was mentioned less and less and Fudge's name more and more. People needed something new to focus on and by Merlin, he was giving it to them. With the wounding of his closest competitor, Barty Crouch, thanks to his good-for-nothing Death Eater son and a few eloquent speeches, Fudge had quickly gained ground in the Ministry of Magic. He was no longer a Junior Minister of the Department of Magical Catastrophes, but now holding the position of Deputy Minister. He was _so_ close to becoming the Prime Minister that he could taste it. Millicent Bagnold was on her last legs and he was fresh and upcoming. No one else stood a chance once she decided to step down.

This was why Harry Potter was the farthest person on Fudge's mind on March 13th, 1988. He had just closed a defense agreement with the Canadians and was hammering out the final details on the treaty, when his assistant came scampering into the conference room to tell him the news. The Ministry had just received reports that Harry Potter was the sole survivor of a muggle air… air-something crash that had left over two hundred muggles dead in the Atlantic Ocean. It had been a great tragedy, but people around the world were taking comfort in the survival of Britain's 'miracle child' or as the muggles were calling him, the 'Boy-Who-Lived.'

The irony of the nickname was undeniable and despite the dreadful manner it was acquired from, everyone around the office had a bit of a chuckle about it. Who knew muggles and wizards thought so much alike?

That night, Fudge sent a condolence card on behalf of Bagnold to her muggle counter-part and figured everything with Mr. Potter's guardianship would be set right by Albus Dumbledore. After all, it was well known through the wizarding world that the Hogwarts headmaster had a heavy hand in the boy's business. Dumbledore would find Potter new lodgings, hopefully in the wizarding world (Fudge had always found it odd that the headmaster insisted he be raised in the muggle world), and they would put all this air-something business behind them.

Unfortunately for Fudge- who was just putting on his coat to grab a quick pint at the Leaky Cauldron before heading home to the Misses- Dumbledore appeared in his office at five minutes to 5 P.M. on a Friday, which every normal person knew was the _worst_ time to conduct any form of business. Of course, the ancient wizard across from him was far from a normal person. After all, who wore purple robes with stars on them to an international trade negotiation with the Chinese? But since it was Dumbledore, a very valuable advisor, Fudge held back his sigh and sat back down in his chair. The pint would have to wait…

"What can I do for you, Dumbledore?"

"I'm sorry to bother you, Deputy Minister, but I've already been to several people in your office who have said my request is impossible… But it is too dire to be ignored, way too dire," the headmaster said, pacing back and forth.

"Dumbledore, I don't understand what you're talking about," Fudge said slowly. Sometimes when he conversed with Dumbledore, he felt as if he was talking to a crazed individual. "What is 'dire'?"

"It's Harry Potter, Cornelius," Dumbledore said, still pacing. "He chose to enter under the care of the Muggle Prime Minister, Gordon Rollins-"

"I know who Rollins is, Dumbledore," Fudge interrupted tersely. He hated it when the old man was condescending to him.

"Of course you do, my boy… Sorry, it's been a long afternoon," the headmaster said, collapsing into a chair uninvited. Fudge felt his lip curl from the 'boy' comment. He got them constantly from Dumbledore and despised them with a fiery passion. Fudge was 43 years old. He was no boy! "But no matter… I've come here to tell you that Rollins has informed one of my contacts he is adopting Harry Potter!"

"Well, that will certainly improve muggle and wizard relations-"

"No! Those are trivial compared to Harry's safety!" Dumbledore said adamantly. "Muggles will not provide him the protection he so sorely needs. This is a matter of great urgency. I must-"

"But Dumbledore, you gave custody of young Mr. Potter to a muggle family after You-Know-Who's demise. You clearly thought he was safe with them," Fudge reminded the headmaster in a gentle tone. However, on the inside, he was rejoicing. That would show the old man to interrupt him!

Dumbledore pulled at the end of his long beard, a habit he had developed when frustrated, "But _Cornelius_, those muggles were Harry's blood relatives. When they were alive, they were able to activate a blood ward keeping the boy safe. Now that they're dead, there is nothing to stop Voldemort or his followers from going after Harry."

Fudge resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Dumbledore was always ranting and raving how He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named would return one day. The Deputy Prime Minister personally thought it was a load of hogwash. The dark wizard had not been seen in over seven years. He was clearly dead as a door knob.

"I think you're overreacting, Dumbledore," Fudge said calmly. "The Auror Department provides excellent protection for the Muggle Prime Minister. Plus, Bagnold has told me that Rollins has his own guards who carry those metal things that kill people. Young Harry will be perfectly fine-"

"No, it is not sufficient. Harry must be under my care," the headmaster insisted. "Please let me talk to Rollins face-to-face. If I explained-"

Fudge rose from his chair, his face reddening, "Absolutely not, Dumbledore! You know our laws. Only the Prime Minister, Deputy Prime Minister or an Auror guard can discuss wizarding affairs with the Muggle Prime Minister, everyone else is off limits! You would risk the Statute of Secrecy! You could be thrown into Azkaban even for attempting it!"

"Please-"

"No, Dumbledore, go back to Hogwarts and don't return until your head is screwed on tightly. You will not be contacting Prime Minister Rollins under _any_ circumstances and that's final," Fudge said firmly, jamming his bowler hat onto his head with more flourish than he usually used, and then opened the door, motioning for Dumbledore to leave, "Good day to you, sir."

The Hogwarts headmaster looked like he wanted to argue further, but upon seeing Fudge's furious expression he wisely decided to keep his mouth shut. Without returning the farewell, Dumbledore quickly exited the office and with a twirl of his magenta robes, he apparated.

A few seconds later, Fudge mimicked the headmaster's magic and appeared in the Leaky Cauldron.

"Tom," he called out to the bartender as he took a seat on the nearest stool. "I need _two_ pints of your best ale!"

* * *

_Power._

It was a concept that Gordon Rollins had centered his entire life around. His thirst for it had driven him to the top of his class in the halls of Oxford. His desire to seize it had made him a ruthless prosecutor in the courtroom, obliterating any defense attorney who dared to stand in his way. His obsession with it helped him successfully navigate the murky waters of the Parliament. In the end, it was truly his passion for power that had taken the man all the way to the top, to 10 Downing Street, where great men like Winston Churchill and Clement Attlee had once walked the halls.

However, there was another side of Gordon Rollins. Beyond his charisma and his intelligence was the same young boy who had once lived under his father's roof in London.

Fear and obedience would be two words Gordon would use to describe his childhood. His father's scathing insults, hard hand and iron grip over his life had dogged the boy until he entered Oxford. Gordon was constantly under pressure to be the best. He had to be at the top of his class. He had to be the leading goal scorer on his football team. He had to lead the student government at his boarding school. For the first eighteen years of his life, everything centered on Gordon being the best and anything less was completely unacceptable.

Unfortunately, there were times that Gordon did not live up to his father's expectations of him. When he was ten, his father screamed at him for two hours after he missed a game winning penalty kick at his football match. In his first year of boarding school, Gordon was ranked second in his class and still had a scar on his back that was proof of his father's displeasure. Gordon had hours and hours of stories of when he met his father's wrath as a result of his failures, but they never once escaped his lips. Not even his wife knew the full extent of Gordon's relationship with his father. It had been off limits from the moment they met in 1972 and would remain so until Gordon drew his last breath. For Gordon, his childhood was a source of shame, a time when he was _powerless_. From the moment he left his father's house, he swore to himself he would never feel that way again, which is why he buried his past with a sense of finality. Gordon Rollins was determined never to dig it up again.

Then, he met Harry Potter.

The boy was fascinating to Gordon from the moment he first was introduced to Harry in Brest, France. He was quiet, but intelligent; small, yet strong; broken, though still resilient. In some ways, Harry Potter reminded Gordon of himself as a boy. He had a constant desire to fight, even at his lowest moments. Gordon admired the child for it and when Heather brought up adopting Harry before the boy left the Royal London Hospital, the Prime Minister found no reason to oppose the idea.

Gordon found the similarities between him and the plane crash survivor more evident when he accompanied the boy to Little Whinging. Harry's lack of emotion at his relatives' funeral service was eerily akin to his own state at his father's. Gordon had shed no tears when he buried his father. He only stared at the coffin of the man who he despised, wondering if his father was burning in hell as he rightfully deserved. It was in the church in Little Whinging that Gordon first suspected something had been off about Harry's home life.

His suspicions intensified when they travelled to Number 4 Privet Drive. When they walked into the living room of the house, the first thing Gordon noticed was that there were no pictures of Harry gracing the walls of the room. The now deceased Petunia, Vernon and Dudley Dursley smiled back at him, but their black haired, green eyed nephew was nowhere to be found. Inside the walls of Number 4, it was as if he never existed.

Things only got worse after Harry's encounter with Marge Dursley. Instead of being a comforting presence to her brother's nephew, the intoxicated woman openly insulted the boy and even implied Harry should be killed for being 'bad luck.' It was such a sickening display that Gordon feared he would lose his temper in front of the awful Dursley woman and the rest of the mourners. Luckily, he was able to calm himself, but he had been _this_ close to becoming front page news just to scream at a drunk.

After Marge's wine glass exploded in her hand, Harry had managed to slip out of the living room without his notice. With the help of Harry's neighbor, Mrs. Figg, Heather and Gordon found the boy hiding in the cupboard under the stairs. Harry's reaction to being discovered in the cramped, dark space confirmed the boy's abuse. The cupboard was not just a hiding place. It had served as the seven year old's bedroom.

By the time they entered the Dursley's kitchen, Gordon's blood was boiling. Why had no one noticed this was happening? Harry had teachers and neighbors who observed him on a daily basis. This Figg woman even claimed to serve as a sitter for Harry on occasion. It was inexcusable that no one had ever turned the boy's case over to child services in the past. Gordon was practically a stranger to Harry and he still had been able to pick up the warning signs of abuse. The older man knew when he got back to 10 Downing Street he would be getting to the bottom of this. He owed Harry that much.

Mrs. Figg's revelation that Harry's mistreatment had been ignored by a head official in the magical community was the last straw for Gordon. He did not understand how an educator of all people could close his eyes to a child's suffering. It was mind boggling. The Prime Minister swore he would not stop until _everyone_ who had covered up the child's abuse had paid the price.

After all, what good was having power unless you could not use it to avenge the people you loved?

The ride back to London was cheery for the sake of Harry, but it did not fool Heather. After fourteen years of marriage, his wife could easily tell that there was a storm brewing behind Gordon's dark grey eyes. Heather squeezed his hand frequently throughout the trip, rubbing soothing circles into the palm of his hand. It was not the first time Gordon was thankful for marrying the law clerk from Kensington. Underneath her kind and soft exterior was a strong woman.

"Gordon?"

It was well after midnight when Heather appeared in the doorway of his office. It was a Saturday night, so most of his staffers had cleared off. He had a few guards posted outside of his door, but they stepped aside when his wife entered the room.

Gordon took off his reading glasses and looked up at the blonde haired woman. Time had added a few wrinkles around her eyes and the corners of her mouth but to the Prime Minister, she was still just as beautiful when he met her in the Kensington legal library over fifteen years ago.

"Why don't you come to bed?" Heather asked. "It's been a long day and you have a meeting with the ambassador from Norway in the morning. You don't want to doze off in the middle of one of his ice fishing stories again."

Gordon felt the corners of his mouth twitch at the memory. The press had poked fun of him for weeks, but the ambassador had been a good sport about it. It certainly had not been one of his higher moments in his political career. Members of the opposition party certainly gave him enough grief to last a lifetime.

"I'm doing a bit of research," he told his wife, motioning to the papers in front of me. "I didn't deal with too many cases of child abuse while I was a magistrate and decided to brush up on the law. It's quite intriguing when you compare it to wizarding law."

Heather's lips instantly formed into a frown, "What are you going to do, Gordon?"

"Only give them what they deserve... and I mean everyone, Heather. Everyone who stood aside and let Harry suffer will pay."

Instead of reprimanding him like he expected, Gordon's wife nodded, "I was hoping you would say that…" Heather now stood behind him and began to massage his shoulders. "Should I get you Rosemary's number?"

"The investigative reporter?"

"The woman's a shark," Heather told him. "Roe will find everyone who covered this up and she'll make those monsters feel glad that we can't reach them in the land of the living."

"I've heard some... interesting things about Miss Skeeter, but is she really that good?" Gordon asked.

"Of course, she's a Skeeter after all."

* * *

Rosemary 'Roe' Skeeter came from a long line of reporters. Her great-great grandfather had been one of the first to write for _The Daily Telegraph_. Her great grandfather had been the news editor for the _Evening Standard_. Her grandfather had died during the Battle of Belgium in 1940, but not before reporting for _The Daily Telegraph _just like his grandfather before him. Roe's father, Richard, had moved on from his father's death and was now the managing editor of _The Daily Telegraph. _So, it was only expected when Roe and her twin sister Rita graduated from university that they would follow in their father's footsteps and join him at _The Daily Telegraph_.

When the Skeeter twins turned eleven, that plan was thrown into a tailspin. Roe could still remember sitting outside under the June sun, digging into her chocolate chip pancakes- made special by her mum for her eleventh birthday- and then a big bird with yellow eyes landing on their breakfast table. Rita had shrieked immediately. She had never liked birds after a particularly nasty incident at a petting zoo involving a male peacock during mating season, but Roe had immediately sprung into action. The cool headed eleven year old spotted the letter attached to the bird's leg and calmly untied it. On the envelope, written in bright green ink, were Rita's name and their address in London.

Once the bird had moved off the table- Rita refused to move an inch until it was gone- Roe's sister tore open the envelope addressed to her. Inside was a letter from a woman named Minerva McGonagall. McGonagall invited Rita to join a magical school called Hogwarts and sent her a list of supplies that included a magic 'wand' and a pewter cauldron.

Roe's parents immediately dismissed the letter as a cruel joke from one of Rita's classmates. After all, _everyone_ knew how much Rita despised winged creatures. She made it no secret from the amount of times she would start screaming at any bird that crossed her path… but then McGonagall herself appeared on the Skeeter's doorstep a week after Roe's eleventh birthday. The stern woman with the Scottish brogue confirmed Rita's acceptance at Hogwarts and the existence of magic.

The Skeeter twins were not the closest pair of twins. Despite having the same blonde curly hair and sharp blue eyes, their personalities were quite different. Rita was bossy, loud and manipulative, while Roe was quiet, thoughtful and guarded. However, despite their differences, Roe still loved her sister very much. She would miss Rita when she left on September 1st, 1961 for Hogwarts.

Unfortunately, even though she loved Rita, it still did not stop Roe from developing the gnawing feelings of jealousy whenever her twin wrote to her about all the magic she was learning at school. Rita was creating potions, flying on a broomstick and transforming needles into matchsticks, while Roe was stuck learning about boring things like math and history. It was not fair that her twin got to be so special, while Roe was just ordinary. They were twins. They were supposed to be the same.

Luckily, Roe's father was determined to keep his daughter's mind off of her twin. He started taking her to _The Daily Telegraph_ more and more. Roe helped her father organize his notes. She ran errands for the reporters. She even got to sit in on interviews. Roe started to live and breathe for _The Daily Telegraph_, while Rita attended Hogwarts. It was the perfect distraction for the young girl. Roe stopped brooding over her twin's adventure and started living her own life, which was becoming more and more exciting each day.

It was no surprise when Roe secured a reporting position with _The Daily Telegraph_ after her graduation from university. However, what was a surprise was Rita's announcement that she would be reporting for the wizarding newspaper, _The Daily Prophet_. Roe's father had laughed and hugged Rita when she told the family the news. He had boasted over glasses of wine that not even magic could keep Skeeters away from reporting the news. Roe had fumed with jealousy that night. Her parents had barely acknowledged her accomplishments, calling them typical, while everyone had praised her twin sister for doing something Skeeters had done for over a century. It was infuriating.

Roe's father had been disappointed when she decided to enter the field of investigative journalism. It was the dirtier side of the field, the more dangerous one, but Roe loved it. She enjoyed putting on disguises and tricking people into telling her what she wanted. It was farther than most journalists were willing to go. It was not only a rush of adrenalin, but it had also set her apart from the rest of her family, who had all been traditional journalists. It had made her special.

And then, one night Rita had come over for supper at her flat and showed her twin sister her ability to turn into a small beetle. Rita had bragged how many major stories she had broken because she was able to spy on politicians, criminals and celebrities. Roe had nearly turned green with envy. It was not fair her sister had such an advantage, while she had to use riskier means to get the information she sought.

Instead of allowing it to suffocate her, Roe used her envy towards her twin sister to fuel her reporting. She constantly strove to be the best reporter she could be and in the next few years, Roe broke the biggest scandals, she uncovered the filthiest dirt and unveiled the worst government cover-ups. _The Daily Telegraph _reporter was quickly becoming legendary within journalism circles and even though she was about to enter her forties childless and without a husband, Roe had no desire to slowdown. She still had so much more to prove.

It was no surprise to Rosemary Skeeter when she entered her office on Monday, April 3rd, 1988 that the red button on her phone was blinking. She would often come back from a weekend of snooping to a full voicemail box. Roe often received tips for developing stories, information from her sources and on occasion, a wife or husband hoping to employ her as a private detective to catch their spouse cheating. Those last ones were always amusing to the reporter. Didn't people realize she had bigger fish to fry than ordinary people's extramarital affairs?

With a small sigh, Roe put down her coffee mug and began listening to her voicemails. The reporter had no trouble admitting going through her messages was one of her more tedious tasks. She jotted down the important information, erased anything that did not catch her interest and when Roe got bored, she doodled on the side of her paper.

So far, there was nothing attention grabbing in the reporter's voicemail box and she still had six more voicemails to listen to. Holding back another sigh- her mother always said her frequent sighing was a bad habit of Roe's- the reporter pressed play on the next message and grabbed her coffee mug for another gulp.

"Miss Skeeter, this is Gordon Rollins."

Instantly, Roe choked on the hot burning liquid that was traveling down the back of her throat. For the next twenty seconds, the blonde haired reporter coughed repeatedly, trying to expel the liquid that had accidently gotten caught in her airway. After a few more loud hacks, the last bit of coffee had been cleared from her throat and she was panting at her desk, trying to get some oxygen back into her lungs.

"...and Miss Skeeter, no wires please."

Roe swore under her breath as Rollins voice cut off from the answering machine. Thanks to her ill-timed choking fit, she would need to rewind the Prime Minister's message and play it again. As the tape spun backwards, Roe's fingers drummed against her desk repeatedly. The blasted thing was so slow! After another eight seconds, the blonde haired woman was finally satisfied enough time had passed and pressed play.

"Miss Skeeter, this is Gordon Rollins. I am calling because I have uncovered a… situation involving my new charge. I want this 'situation' thoroughly investigated, but for obvious reasons I am unable to do it myself… I have heard from several of my distinguished colleagues that even though you are- and I quote- 'a royal pain in the ass', you are the best investigative reporter in all of Great Britain and I really do need the best of the best on this… At this moment, I cannot afford to give you any more details of this situation over the phone. So if you are willing, please come to 10 Downing Street at 11 AM on Monday for a full briefing. I request that you use my staff entrance and ask for my guard Kingsley. He will bring you to me… Oh, and Miss Skeeter, no wires please."

Roe pressed the pause button on her answering machine and stared blankly at her notepad. After a few moments, her brain had finally caught up to her and she was able to mutter, "Bloody hell."

Obviously, the Prime Minister's 'new charge' was none other than media darling, Harry Potter. The 'Boy-Who-Lived' had been hanging around Rollins and his wife ever since fishermen pulled the seven year old out of the frigid Atlantic. Next to Flight 1326 and the thawing of the Cold War, the orphan was the hottest news topic around. It was practically guaranteed that any 'investigation' involving Potter would be journalist gold.

Roe grinned as she took another sip of coffee. Her twin sister would cut off her right hand to get a chance to do an investigative report on the 'Boy-Who-Lived.' Rita had made it clear from the amount of times she 'stopped by' the _Daily Telegraph_ since March 13th for the latest updates on Harry Potter that the orphan boy was a major story in the wizarding world too. Roe could not help but smirk, as she wondered how much her sister would grovel to be a part of this investigation. The reporter would have to 'owl' Rita after her meeting with Rollins just to rub the story in her face.

"Shite, what time is it?" Roe wondered out loud, interrupting her internal gloating, and checked her wristwatch. The hour hand was pointing to 10 and the minute hand was on the 3. She only had forty-five minutes to get all the way to 10 Downing Street in London traffic. She would have to move fast or she would miss out on what could be the story of the year.

Immediately, the blonde haired reporter sprung up from her desk and threw her notepad and tape recorder in her purse. As she pulled on her navy blue trench coat, Roe hastily blurted at one of the secretaries that she needed to meet with some sources and not to expect her back in the office until the afternoon.

The drive to 10 Downing Street was nerve-wracking. Her father always complained there were too many idiots in London with their driver's licenses and Roe found herself agreeing with his opinion as she honked at the fourth motorist who tried to cut her off. Finally, after thirty-five stressful minutes, the reporter pulled up to the staff entrance of the Prime Minister's, rolled down her window and flashed her license and press credentials to the male guard at the security booth.

"Do you have an appointment, Miss Skeeter?" the guard asked, eyeing her with suspicion. Roe guessed her reputation as an investigative journalist must have preceded her. The reporter was not very popular within circles of politicians and judging from the frosty glare she was currently receiving from the man in the booth, her notoriety must have carried over to the guards as well. Oh well.

"Yes, I do sir. I'm meeting with a guard named Kingsley," Roe informed the man, smiling sweetly up at him. The guard did not return the smile and instead, reached for his radio. After a few seconds talking back and forth on the radio, the man glanced back down at Roe.

"Park in spot 12b. Kingsley will meet you there."

"Excellent, love," Roe said with a small, cheeky wave before rolling her window back up. The April air was still too nippy to have it down for long.

Waiting for the blonde reporter at spot 12b was a tall, black man with an impassive face. He was wearing a meticulously pressed navy blue suit and a gun strapped on his waist. Roe thought the man was quite handsome, but she was certain his personality was as wooden as his face.

"Miss Skeeter?" the guard asked in a _very_ deep voice.

"Yes, that's me," the reporter said, straightening out her trench coat. "And you're Kingsley?"

The guard nodded, "Yes, ma'm, I'm going to take you through security and then, I'll bring you up to your appointment."

"Alright, lead the way, Kingsley."

Kingsley took her inside 10 Downing Street where she was subsequently poked, prodded, checked for wires and sent through the metal detector twice (she forgot to take off her belt the first time) all by a grumpy female guard with yellow teeth. After being classified as 'not a threat', Roe was lead into an elevator by Kingsley who punched in a code into a box and then, pressed the number 3. They rode the elevator in silence and the reporter was glad when the doors finally sprung open onto a new hallway.

"Where are the staffers?" Roe asked Kingsley as they walked down the empty hallway. The reporter swore the last time she was in the Prime Minister's office that this floor was bustling with activity.

"Not here," the guard replied vaguely before unlocking a door at the end of the hallway.

Kingsley allowed her to step inside first. Roe had entered a conference room that contained a long, oak table, black leather chairs and a world map hanging from the wall. There were no windows in the room with the only illumination coming from the florescent lights above Roe's head. It was a gloomy place.

At the head of the conference table was the Prime Minister himself. The tall man with dark hair had grey eyes that reminded Roe of harsh steel. On his right sat a pretty blonde haired woman that the reporter recognized as the Prime Minister's wife, Heather Rollins. The typically friendly woman currently looked cold and serious. Roe wondered what had happened over the weekend that had upset Mrs. Rollins so much. However, this was not contemplated for long because Roe noticed there was a third person at the conference table. A woman who was wearing bright red lipstick and a predatory grin sat on Gordon Rollin's left. Roe immediately felt her stomach begin to churn.

"Ready to break the biggest story of the year, sister?"

* * *

Things are about to blow-up...

A/N I want to start off with an apology. I know I have not updated in a _very_ long time. I'm a Kindergarten teacher and school is officially back in session. I've been quite busy with lesson planning, grading, etc. and I kind of put this project on the back burner until I had everything under control. Now, I have time to write, so you should expect more frequent updates. Perhaps, not at the speed I used to update, but it should not take me almost 2 months to update again... I also had a bit of a planning crisis with this story. I was not sure what direction I wanted it to go in this chapter. I actually had a whole other chapter written introducing another important character, but I decided the Skeeter saga is more vital to this story at the moment than the introduction of this character. We will be back to Harry next chapter and see how he is handling life at 10 Downing, plus he might attend a _very_ awkward dinner party next chapter.

Thank you again for all of your reviews! You all are amazing and I appreciate the support. Have a nice Sunday everyone!


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